Lothíriel
by JunoMagic
Summary: The story of Lothíriel. How to follow a rainbow. There and NOT back again. Tenth Walker Story. Based on the books as accurately as possible. Book 1, Chapters 1 to 36, won the 'Faramir Goes To Rivendell MEFA Award 2005'.
1. What's in a Name

**Disclaimer: **This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J. R. R. Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the private enjoyment of readers at fanfiction . net, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.

**Dedication: **This story is dedicated to Jen Littlebottom whose profile at FFNet inspired this story

**Acknowledgements: **I would like to thank my beta-reader ObsidianJ who volunteered proofreading this monster. You are a miracle. Thank you for everything.

**Warning: **At the moment only the first 60 chapters posted at FFNet are **betaed** chapters. The others are still in their first, rough & ugly version. All mistakes in them are mine.

This is a Tenth Walker Novel that follows the books as closely as possible.

**References: **During the part of the story that parallels the books I quote dialogue now and again without referencing every single line as this would break up the smooth flow of the narrative. All those intertextual quotes are from J.R.R. Tolkien's "The Lord of the Rings". Everything else quoted in this story is either Public Domain or used with permission by the respective authors or quoted according to the rules of Fair Use, giving the appropriate references.

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**oooOooo**

**1. What's in a Name**

I am a freak. I have to admit it. I just am.  
Perhaps I could not help myself.  
After all, it's in my name.

**ooo**

You American gals may say cool, and what's the trouble with that. 

But you see - I am not American. I am German. And in Germany people simply are not called Dawn or Galadriel, or, for that matter, Lothíriel.

If you have a baby, you have to go to the registry office to get the name for the baby properly registered and a nice, stamped document to prove it. The nice officer of the registry office asks the new parents or parent what the child's name shall be. You tell him the name you have chosen and then he takes out a huge book, or nowadays sits down at his computer and looks up the name to check if it is a name you may use. You may not call your child after things like Heaven, Dawn or Sun. You may not choose just any fictional name. Some fictional names have a historical tradition. You may choose those – like Arthur, or Siegfried, or Edda.

Others are no go.

You may guess to which category Lothíriel belonged.

No go, of course.

My mother had a screaming fit and called the officer of the registry office several very rude names and left.  
As far as she was concerned, it was Lothíriel or nothing.

My mother is an independent woman.  
A single parent and proud of it.  
She left the registry office and went straight to a lawyer.  
The lawyer wrote to the registry office and claimed that Lothíriel was a perfectly normal name.

It isn't, even today.

The registry office replied that the name was not in the books or the files on their computer.  
I could not be named Lothíriel. There was no such name.

My mother grew angry.

And my mother had money.

You need money for lawyers and courts. Her parents, my grand-parents had left her a lovely estate and quite a fortune. Creature comforts like that tend to make it easier to be an independent woman and a proud single parent.  
She told the lawyer to go ahead.  
The lawyer was enchanted and did exactly that.

I was lucky in the way that while Lothíriel was an unusual name and not on the lists, it was not on the black list of names, which are supposed to be harmful to children because of guaranteed harassing later in life (e.g. "Goofy" or "Donald-Duck").  
The lawyer was sure he could win the case, and perhaps the lovely woman behind it.

The case went to court.

The court was the small town court of the first instance. The judge had never heard of Tolkien or "The Lord of the Rings". He ruled against Lothíriel and asked my mother to have me registered with a normal name. She did not. In the end, the judge ordered the registry office to put me down as "Anna". My mother refused to call me Anna.

We appealed.  
And lost again.

In the end there was only the Supreme Court left to appeal to.

We did.

It may come as a surprise, but there is a constitutional right in the German constitution, which is about liberty. Article 2, paragraph 1 of the German constitution, the Grundgesetz, states that everyone has the right to freely develop his or her personality (that is, to do whatever you want), if he/she does not infringe on the rights of others or violates the constitutional order (meaning the constitution and every other law, right down to the regulations about what is a name and what is not a name at the registry office) or the moral standards.

More "if" than "liberty", at first glance.

But every regulation which infringes on your constitutional rights has to be reasonable and has to adhere to certain standards. And the Supreme Court has to examine these requirements.

In my case, it was found that prohibiting the use of Lothíriel as a first name for a girl-child was not reasonable.

Perhaps the judge responsible for my case liked "The Lord of the Rings". Or perhaps his daughter wanted to call her first child after her favourite fictional character, Lancelot.

Maybe he just liked the sound of my name.  
It is, after all, quite a melodic name.

Whatever the reason, in 1982, I was finally granted the right to be called "Lothíriel".

**ooo**

We had spent one and a half years in different courts. 

In 1982 these were the results of my mother's toils and troubles:

Several articles had been written about me, and had been published in various tabloids and magazines. My mother had given two or three interviews on TV-shows and had been offered a contract to write a book about women and liberty. Friends of my mother had held a "sit-in" at the registry office. The officer who had objected to me being Lothíriel in the first place resigned. I think he left the country.

And last but not least, there is half a page about me and my name in one of the fat black books in which all the decisions of the German Supreme Court are collected. If you want to have a look at it, you can find it using this abbreviation: BVerfG E 59, 278.

As for me, I did not care.

I learned how to walk at ten months. When I was finally, officially, Lothíriel, my ability to speak included "no", "mama", "want", "judge" and "cat". And "papa" was the nice lawyer, who spent so much time with us.

My name was of no concern to me.

Perhaps it should have been.

**ooo**

I like my name. 

I learned how to pronounce it correctly when I was two and an English girl came to live with us and take care of me. Jenny was from York in Yorkshire. She was fair-haired and blue-eyed and had a beautiful accent. And, which was most important: she taught me how to pronounce the English "th", which is the one thing in the English language German people really have trouble with.

When I was three, I was sent to kindergarten. At first I thought they wanted to tease me, when they kept calling me Losíriel. But contrary to the conviction of the registry office, I never met anyone who ridiculed my name. I did, however, encounter many persons, who could for the love of little apples not pronounce my name correctly.

More often than not, I remained "Losíriel".

It could have been worse.

After all, my mother could have come up with the idea of calling me after Ann McCaffrey's dragons and their riders. And those are difficult enough in English to pronounce correctly, let alone in German.

Anyway, I grew up quite unconcerned about my name.

But somehow, I guess, my name nevertheless influenced my life from the very beginning.

**ooo**

Can you grow up into a completely ordinary person with an extraordinary name and a framed decision of the Supreme Court hanging on the wall above your bed? 

Perhaps it is possible.

But it did not really work for me.  
I had finished school with excellent results and had gone on to university straight away.

As my first experiences with law and order had been quite commendable, and as I loved my step-father, the lawyer, dearly, I studied law.

I was good at it.  
I hated it.

What was worse, I was too good at it to simply drop it and do something else.  
Now the last long summer holidays before the final exams in spring drew close.  
I knew that I should spend the holidays with my books and keep my walks to the three times a week I had to go to the expensive preparatory course for my final exams I had booked at a prestigious _repetitorium_.

But this very morning I got up, packed my backpack and walked out of the apartment I shared with a friend of mine without saying where I was off to.

**ooo**

One more day of those damn books and those damn walls, and I would have started screaming, I thought, walking away from the city on a narrow country lane, enjoying the sunshine. 

I love walking.

I have loved walking, since I first read about rangers in "The Lord of the Rings" and my mother explained to me, who I was named for.

I was disappointed at first that she had not named me after an elvish princess.  
But I did like the idea of being a ranger.  
Ranger, Dúnadan - words, which have the ring of freedom.

I had the name to go with them.

And a framed certificate of liberty backing me up.

Lothíriel.

I cannot remember when, but at some time in my teenaged agonizing I promised myself a summer of freedom. One summer to spend ranging, walking hidden paths – just leaving my place with no aim and only a handkerchief!

Freedom! A whole summer of it.

I had never dared to do that, even though I knew you should never break a promise, especially one you made to yourself.  
Until this very morning, when I felt that I could not bear it any longer.

I smiled at myself.

Finally I would live up to my name.

Lothíriel, ranger, Dúnadan; finally free!  
Finally on the road to her destiny!

**oooOooo**

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A/N: **Don't check the decisions of the German constitutional court. I made that decision up, although the book I refer to really contains the decisions of 1982. 

**oooOooo**

**Please feel free to leave a comment!**

_Anything at all:_ If you noticed a typo, if you don't like a characterization or description, if you thought a line especially funny, if there was anything you particularly enjoyed … I am really interested in what my readers think about my writing.

You can leave a public comment (signed or anonymous), send me a private message, visit my forums or mail me off-site: juno _underscore_ magic _at_ magic _dot_ ms

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this story.

Yours  
JunoMagic


	2. A Ranger out of Erlangen

**A/N:** This chapter is dedicated to all law students swotting for their exams. You will survive!

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**oooOooo **

**2. A Ranger out of Erlangen**

It was a sunny Thursday at the beginning of August. The summer holidays of the university had just started. In the evening I should be at the law coach at precisely 18:00, with the solution to three trial cases. At this very moment I should be sitting at my desk, my nose in a set of books, ignoring the sunshine.

Instead I had packed my backpack, rolled up my sleeping bag and my therm-a-rest, and left the apartment I shared with Emilia.Emilia had asked where I was going and when I would be back.I had told her that I did not know where I was going and hoped to be back at the end of October, when the new term started.

Then I had left, closing the apartment door quietly behind me.

**ooo**

I took the bus to Bubenreuth, a village on the outskirts of Erlangen, and started walking.

Soon the city of Erlangen and the highway to Bamberg lay behind me and I walked along a narrow country lane between green fields of corn and golden fields of wheat and barley.

**ooo**

Mark, my step-father, would be very understanding about my just leaving on the spot. He would embrace me, thump my shoulders and try to pay for an expensive holiday on an exotic island to soothe my nerves. My mother would suggest meditation in Tibet or a monastery in India to get me re-connected to the spiritual world. Or she would call one of her strange friends to come over and do a tarot reading for me or to show me some shamanic dances to free my soul.

Thoughts rose unbidden in my mind:

I am happy with my family.  
They may be strange, each in his or her own way, but they love me, I love them, and we all know it.

I am not at all happy with my life.

I am twenty-four, graduate to be from a good university with a history of more than 250 years of research and teaching. I should be ready to take on a career as a lawyer or a judge or an attorney. I should be ready to take on anything!

And now I am here walking along this narrow country lane away from the university city of Erlangen and feel nothing but relief at leaving it all behind.

All those damn ought-to's and must-have's and don't-do's and just-in-time's.

Those books which tell me nothing.  
Those rules which only choke me.  
Those students who only look to their future businesses and careers.  
Those other students who dream their lives away.

When I had finished school, I had thought I knew everything.  
I had felt so wonderfully grown up.  
I had felt ready to take on everything back then.

Where had this feeling disappeared to?  
When had this feeling disappeared?  
Can you feel jaded at twenty-four?

I should not even be taking this one day off of my studies, a small voice reminded me at the back of my mind.

A feeling of guilt was creeping into my conscience.

I stopped dead in my tracks and, suddenly, I felt nothing but anger.

I was twenty-four and I had no life.  
I had never done what I had wanted to do most.  
I had always been responsible and dependable and smart.

And the result was: I was twenty-four, I hated what I was doing, and I had no life.

If I had been back at my apartment, I think I would have run into the kitchen and started throwing porcelain to the ground.

Gods, was I mad!

I felt like screaming, I felt like hitting something, someone.

And suddenly I found that I was, in fact, screaming.

I was shouting at the top of my lungs, screaming at an oak tree at the roadside and kicking the tree trunk as hard as I could.

"I hate my life. I – hate – my – life! I – just – cannot – stand – it – one – more – day, one- more – hour, one – more – minute!"

My foot twisted, and I fell to the ground, pounding the dirt with my fists. Hot tears were running down my cheeks and my voice grew hoarse with every shout I gave.

Finally the tears and the screams subsided. My head felt slightly achy, but my mind was wonderfully calm. I felt empty, floating through space. I stared at my dirty fingers and the few damp spots on the ground where my fists had hit the dirt repeatedly.

This was my life.

This was the only chance I had, to make my life – if not worthwhile – at least not a complete misery. I would never have another chance.If I hated what I was doing so much that I had a screaming fit in a public place, something was seriously wrong with my life. Logical reasoning. Studying law helps you to develop an acute sense for logical reasoning.

If my life was that wrong, then I had to change it.

I inhaled deeply.

Change my life.

I will change my life.  
I will change my life now.

Now.

This very minute.

But…  
…how should I change my life?

I looked at my dirty fingers, the dusty earth, and felt absolutely confused.

What should I do?  
Get rid of university?  
Find a job?  
Do some trekking in Nepal?  
Spend a year in Mom's favourite monastery in India?

Then I smacked my forehead with my palm.

I was already at it again!  
Thinking about what I ought to do!  
But what did I _want_ to do?

I had no idea if there was anything at all that I really "wanted" to do. My friend, Katrin, she knew from the start that she would be a teacher. She told me it was her calling.

I had never felt anything like that.

What did I want to do? I mused. And sitting in the dirt of the country lane out of Erlangen, I suddenly realized that I was already doing it. I had forever and a day dreamed about becoming a real live ranger. I had always wanted to experience for myself what I had read about in "The Lord of the Rings", spending days in the wilderness, sleeping under the stars…

I wanted to find out what it was that I was named for.

A slow grin spread on my face. I had set out this very morning to do exactly that: to spend three months walking!

And I would!

I got to my feet and tried to beat the dust out of my jeans.  
I was not really successful.

The only result was that the dirt was spread much more economically. What the hell, I thought. That only goes to make me look more real.

As if I had spent already some time on the road.

I felt my grin grow even broader.

I adjusted the backpack and breathed deeply, all at once feeling relaxed and carefree.  
I set off along the country lane into the hills of Franconia.

**ooo**

It was not quite as lovely a landscape as the English midlands, which probably had been the model for Tolkien's description of the Shire.

But it was a remarkably similar landscape.  
Franconia, the northern part of southern Germany:

There are soft hills and small fields of corn and wheat, barley and even pipe-weed, tobacco. There are thickets of brambles and raspberries and hedges of whitethorn and rose hips.There are woods of fir trees, beech and oak trees, flush with game. There are winding country roads along burbling little streams.There are ancient farming villages with rustic inns, which serve delicious dark, home-brewed beer, and even some castles and mysterious ruins from ages long gone.

Franconia is a rural country full of history and hidden stories.

In fact, I mused, it was a perfect country for a newly appointed ranger to try out her feet.

I grinned and looked with new delight around me, taking in the sunshine and the scent of summer drifting across from the ripening fields, which I had barely noticed before.

Lothíriel, Franconian ranger out of the university city of Erlangen!

**ooo**


	3. Tramps and Fairy Tales

**3. Tramps and Fairy Tales**

I walked as far as my legs carried me. When I stopped to rest for the night, I had no idea where I was, and I was too tired to care. I was even too tired to remember my step-father's anxieties about dangerous murderers waiting behind every bush… I just put down my therm-a-rest behind said bush, laid my sleeping back on top of it and climbed into this sleeping bag.  
I was asleep within minutes.

I woke from someone screaming. My heart in my mouth I shot up and promptly fell over, constrained by my sleeping bag. I sat up clumsily and blinked dizzily at a middle-aged woman and a small white dog on a red leash. It had been the screams of that woman, which had woken me up so rudely. Now she had momentarily fallen silent, my heartbeat gradually returned to normal.

"You are not dead!" she gasped.  
"No," I said, my vision slowly clearing. "At least, I don't think so."  
"I thought you were dead," she told me, her voice shaking. "I thought you were the victim of a horrible murder."  
Apparently not only my step-father suffered from the delusion that rural Germany is a dangerous place.  
"Nope," I repeated. "No murder. Sorry. I am only on holiday from university." A life-long holiday, I added in my mind.  
She gaped at me. "But… isn't that dangerous? All alone? As a woman?"  
I peeled myself out of my sleeping bag. "No. At least statistically it is much more dangerous to drive to work on a German highway."  
I reached into my backpack. "May I offer you a piece of chocolate? As a remedy for the shock? I'm afraid that's all I have for breakfast."  
And it was. My precipitous departure had left me less than well supplied for life as a ranger.  
"Oh, no, no! You've got to come with me and have breakfast with my family! My screams…" She blushed. "I must have scared you just as much as you scared me! I am truly sorry. My husband keeps telling me I shouldn't read so many thrillers."  
"Well… I could have been dead; such things happen. And I guess you don't have many hikers just spending their night behind the next bush." And I won't do that again, either, I thought. Tonight I will hide in the woods. Not even a wild boar will find me!

Then I considered her offer of breakfast. Coffee…!  
I accepted the invitation. It turned out that I had not really walked very far the day before. I was at Langenzenn, a village some twenty minutes drive from Erlangen. I suppressed a sigh. It was more difficult to be a ranger in Franconia than I had thought.

The woman, call me Marie, turned breakfast into a lavish affair, with homemade brown bread, fresh eggs boiled exactly the way God wanted eggs to be boiled, a fruit salad, freshly pressed orange juice, homemade preserves and delicious coffee. I was awestruck.

I told her she could follow me around and scream at me every morning, if breakfast with her family was always this lovely. She grinned at me. "I only do that on the weekends, normally, but with the holidays… you know, my husband does not get off work this summer, and I wanted the boys to have at least some holiday feeling…" Her husband had already departed to Erlangen, and the two boys in question were staring at me wide eyed from across the kitchen table. They were ten and thirteen, respectively, and Hans and Matthias were both suitably impressed by a girl staying out in the fields and scaring their mother out of her wits. Somehow I strongly suspected that Marie would be shopping for camping gear in the near future.

It was already late in the morning when I said good-bye and promised to write a postcard when I was somewhere interesting. I walked along the streets of Langenzenn and sighed. I had wanted to get away from normal life. I had wanted to experience the freedom of a true Dúnadan. I had ended up scaring women walking little white dogs.  
At least I had made it to a town where I could get supplies for some days of real walking. Chocolate for breakfast was not my favourite way to start a day.  
I bought provision for two weeks and a map for hiking in Franconia.

I left Langenzenn on the main, tarred road.

After a kilometre a muddy path started between thickets of brambles and piles of rubbish to the left of the road. I started down the narrow trail and promised myself to turn my back on anything resembling a village for the next two weeks.

It turned out to be a really hard job to keep this promise. Although I was walking through a lovely country of soft hills, little woods, small fields, a country dotted with fish ponds and lined with streams and rivulets, this lovely country was also quite densely populated, and had been for a long, long time… think long as in before Christ.

But I tried very hard. Every time I spotted a house, a real road, a church steeple, I turned and went the other way. I lost my bearings on the third day. My map was a really good map for walkers, hikers and cyclists. It showed even the small field lanes and trails I was using. But turning around every time I saw more than a hint of civilization was too much even for this valiant map. I did not care. As long as I understood the language, I thought, I would know that I had not ventured too far to the East or the West. And there were many large highways to cross in either direction before I could accidentally leave Germany, so there was no need to worry.

Staying away from villages got easier as I moved away from the population centre of Nuremberg, Fuerth and Erlangen – more than a million of people are kind of hard to ignore.  
Three days after my encounter with Marie I sat at the top of a hill looking into a glorious sunset. Not too far in the distance nestled a small farming village in a valley between hills of woods and fields. For once I did not turn and run. It was not really close. And it was very soothing to look at the timbered houses and the small church built of sandstone, which was glowing reddish-yellow in the light of the evening sun. I heard the bell of the church ring out, and from the far side of the village the noise of a tractor returning from the fields drifted over.

Peace…

My feet hurt from walking the entire day; I was sweaty, had a sunburnand needed a bath.  
Nevertheless, I felt better than… I could not remember when I had felt better. Better than in a very long time, anyway.

When the sun had diminished to a glowing red ember a bare hand's breadth above the Western horizon I got up. A bit farther up into the hills I had spotted a small lake in front of a wood of deciduous trees, mainly beeches and oaks. A good spot to spend the night, I thought. Perhaps the water in the lake would be clean enough to take a bath.

As I walked up the path, I saw that I had been correct. This would be a nice place to spend the night, and the water of the lake looked only slightly muddy, not downright dirty.  
But when I got closer, I realized that the best spot was already occupied.

At the edge of the small forest, only a few feet away from the lake someone had lit a fire.  
Probably boys from the village, I thought, feeling disappointed. I was already turning to trudge back down the hill, when a gravelly voice called out to me. "Hello there! Why do you turn back? There's enough room here for the two of us. I don't bite! I might even share this delicious trout I caught!"  
My heart started to race. It was an old man. Alone. Probably just an old vagabond, a harmless down-on-his-luck tramp, seeking the quiet of the country in the summer.  
Or a mad axe-murderer, who had spent all his life just waiting for me to come along.  
I shook my head at my unreasonable fear.  
I wanted to play at being a ranger, didn't I?  
Would Aragorn have turned back from the fire? Or Viggo Mortensen?  
I gritted my teeth and turned back to the fire.

It was really an old man. His face was lined from age and hard times, too, I guessed. He had a long, white beard and his hair, which fell down to his shoulders in unruly waves, was also white. He had very bright blue eyes, which twinkled merrily under bushy brows. Around his neck he wore a silvery scarf, and next to him on the ground he had put a large bag of indistinguishable colour, a grey cloak, and a pointed blue hat. He was clothed in dark pants and a grey, tunic-like shirt, which he wore loosely above the pants. His shoes had once been black, but were scuffed and stained to criss-crossed grey colour. The only bright things about him were the blue hat, a shining white walking stick, which he had propped up against the oak tree behind him, and his blue eyes.

"Well, come on, my friend," he said, "Sit down! You have to be weary and hungry."  
He patted the ground next to him. Then he grinned up at me. "By the way, my name is-" He coughed. "Georg."  
"Nice to meet you," I said and dropped my backpack to the ground several feet away from him. Hopefully only a false name and not tuberculosis.  
"I am Lothíriel."  
He glanced up at me, and for a moment I was caught in a penetrating stare of keen, blue eyes.  
"That is not a German name."

I sighed. Here we go again. The vagabond, who called himself Georg, dropped his gaze and busied himself with turning a stick with grilling fish, which he had put across two forked branches over the fire.

I sat down and got out my bottle of water. It tasted quite stale. Tomorrow I would have to go into the village and buy something to drink, if I did not want to try the little pills which were supposed to purify water on trekking tours in foreign countries.

"No," I said. "It's not a German name. It's from a book my mother loved to read when she was young. The Lord of the Rings." He would not know it. My step-grandmother was seventy-three, and she had never heard of LOTR, neither the books nor the movies, though I did not understand how she could have missed the movies; after all, she lived in Nuremberg, a city of more than 500,000 inhabitants and quite a number of large cinemas.  
But to my surprise he looked up and there was a strange gleam in his blue eyes.

"Do you know 'The Lord of the Rings'?" I asked, delighted.

The old man looked into the fire for a moment, and then he smiled at me. "In a way."

He poked again at the fish. "Almost ready. Must be nice to be named for a legend."

I laughed at that. For a tramp he was really nice. He did not smell of booze or stink or anything and he spoke clearly, not the harsh slurred speech of the gutter. "If I only were… Lothíriel is a name mentioned only in a foot-note. I don't even know what it means. My mother liked the sound of it, and that was that."

"Indeed… then you have to fill the name with life yourself. That's maybe even better than being named for a legend." What a curious sentiment for tramp. Perhaps he was not a tramp at all, but a runaway professor of philosophy?

I took off my shoes and my socks, and after considering what kind of danger the old man might pose, I walked around to the other side of the lake, undressed, and had a swim. The water of the lake was quite clear and wonderfully cool. I used my shower gel only very sparingly, because I did not want to contaminate the water. Nevertheless, I felt completely refreshed and clean, when I returned to the fire, just in time for the trout.  
I contributed a bag of crisps and two apples.

It was delicious.  
We ate in companionable silence; the only noises the blowing of breaths to cool the hot fish and the rustling of the bag of crisps.  
Not a mad axe-murderer, after all, I mused. Somehow I felt really safe and comfortable in the company of the old tramp. Lothíriel, forever the freak…

After this strange dinner the old tramp leaned back comfortably against the oak tree behind him and produced a long pipe. It was old and worn, but other than that it looked almost like the pipes produced for the LOTR movies. That's really globalised economy, I mused; after all, those pipes are made in Nuremberg, Franconia, by a traditional pipe-making factory.  
The old man stuffed and lit his pipe. He puffed vigorously once or twice, and then exhaled softly, producing a beautiful smoke ring with lightly pursed lips.

I clapped my hands. "That's wonderful! I have never seen that before." I had always wondered if the rings had been just another special effect. Well, it was obvious that the ship made of smoke was, but I had not been sure about the rings.  
The tramp raised his eyebrows. "Don't people smoke around here anymore?"  
"Oh, they do, I know they do, and pipes, too," I answered. "Only I don't really know anyone who does. But I know that they do." Put like that, my explanation sounded really stupid.

But what the hell… here and now, for once in my life it did not matter if I sounded stupid or smart. I crossed my legs, propped my elbows on my knees and rested my chin in my upturned palms. The fire was a large, well built fire, not like my pitiful attempts at making a campfire during the past days. I enjoyed watching the flames, yellow and red, blue at the core, the big branches gradually turning into glowing embers.

"Now that we've introduced ourselves and shared dinner, why don't you tell me how you come to be out here? Shouldn't you be at… university or on holiday, a young woman, nowadays? Or have you run away?"

I looked across the fire to the old man. He was smoking his pipe, his eyes partially closed in relaxation. There was no reason to tell him. On the other hand, why shouldn't I tell him? The old tramp had to know more about failure and running away than I did, roaming the streets at his age.

"Perhaps I have run away. I was a law student in Erlangen. But I didn't like it. And a few days ago, I suddenly couldn't stand it any longer. I just packed my things and left." I stared into the fire. "I am twenty-four, and I have no idea who I am. I have no idea where I belong. I don't know where to go or what to do. But I can't stand this… world anymore. I just can't!"  
I was surprised how vehemently the last part came out.

The old man took the pipe out of his mouth with a slight pop. "Oh, this world is not that bad. It could be worse, you know. And you seem to be a smart girl. You will find your place, somewhere."

"I really hope so." I whispered, and sighed. "It's only, I've always felt kind of strange here. As if I didn't really belong here. Always at odds with the world… Sometimes I wish, I could leave this world, just close my eyes, and take this one last step into another world, a world where I could really feel at home."

"Be careful what you wish for, Lothíriel, because it just might come true."

I laughed at that, and then stared at him in amazement. "You have pronounced my name correctly! You really have read Tolkien!"

He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise, but I thought I saw a fleeting shadow pass in his blue eyes. "I did? Really?" he said, rolling his eyes comically. "Must have been luck."

I thought about what he had said, and asked, "Do you really believe that there are other worlds beside this earth? Worlds, which we could reach?"  
If he said yes, I would not be really surprised. There had been a homeless man in Erlangen, a drunk, paranoid man, who had talked to and shouted at the street lights.

The tramp favoured me with a very gentle smile, almost as if he had heard my thoughts.  
"Maybe. Maybe not. Who can say? You know what they say about the rainbows, do you?"

"Rainbows?" I asked, slightly confused.

"Yes," he repeated. "At the end of the rainbow you will find your greatest treasure."

I frowned. "I thought you were supposed to find a pot of gold there."

He raised his eyebrows and replied dryly, "If that is your greatest treasure …"  
Then he smoked again quietly for several minutes.  
"But yes," he finally said softly. "I do believe in other worlds, different worlds. However, I would think that each world has its own troubles and toils, and that you would not necessarily find life easier anywhere else. But I do believe that there are more things between heaven and earth, Horatio –" He grinned at me, happy at his quote of Shakespearean drama.

I smiled back at him. Somehow this old vagabond had a really irresistible charm.

He exhaled the smoke of his pipe into another splendid ring of grey smoke.  
"Ahh," he sighed contentedly. "Story telling at the campfire. Just lovely! You know, there are many wonderful fairy tales about reaching different worlds. There's one about mid-summer's day, St. John's day, Johannis, which I really liked… hmm… let's see if I remember it. Oh, yes: legend has it that if you step on St John's wort on midnight of mid-summer's eve, you can see the entrance to the world of the fairies. Now, long ago, there lived a little girl called Dott …"

We spent the evening telling tales and stories; I even remembered some poems I had had to learn at school, which delighted the old tramp to no end.  
When the fire had burned down, the big branches reduced to a heap of glowing embers, I crawled into my sleeping bag with a happy smile on my face.  
"Good night," I called to the old man, who had curled up under his grey cloak on the other side of the fire.  
"Sleep well," he replied, and I fell asleep at once, dreaming of rainbows and roads to other worlds, elves and fairies …  



	4. At the End of a Rainbow

**4. At the End of a Rainbow**

I woke from the sun shining on my face. That's the most wonderful way to wake. Apart from soft kisses trailing down your body, of course.  
I blinked the sleep out of my eyes and slowly sat up in my sleeping bag. I groaned, stretched and looked around.

The old man was gone.

I crawled out of my sleeping bag and walked around the lake, surveying the woods, hills and meadows around the campsite.

The old man was nowhere in sight. He must have decided to go on at the break of dawn.

Finally I shrugged and turned back to my backpack, taking out bread, cheese and coffee powder for a small breakfast. When I sat on a log in the morning sunshine, looking across the green hills of Franconia with my steaming mug of coffee in my hands, I was happy with my decision to dare and approach the fire last night.

I had not been killed instantly.  
I had had a lovely dinner and a really interesting evening.  
Tales at the campfire… I smiled to myself.  
That was much more the thing that I had envisioned for my time as a ranger.

The only thing that was missing was a bit of a real adventure.

**ooo**

After breakfast I cleaned up my dishes and had a look at my supplies. There was still enough food for another week, but I had not much left to drink, just a can of coke and a small package of milk. I bit my lower lip and mulled this over.  
I was not far from a village. And the village had looked really nice from above: rural, ancient, idyllic. I could buy some bottles of water there and have a good meal at a pub.  
After all, I had been walking straight, well, actually I had rather been skirting the ever-present tentacles of civilization in wild zigzags most of the time – but I had been walking all day for almost a week. It was time for a little break. After all, even the heroes of all those novels I loved reading took breaks now and again. And in "The Lord of the Rings" Aragorn had enjoyed smoking and an occasional mug of beer. So there was nothing wrong with that, was there?

Yes, I decided, I would go to that village and buy water, and have myself a nice meal. Perhaps I would even indulge in a mug of beer. I sighed with anticipation and carefully repacked my backpack. When I was ready to go, the morning sun had disappeared and dark clouds were low in the sky behind me. The village, however, lay still in a spot of bright sunshine.  
As I walked towards the village, strong gusts of wind pushed at me from behind, and the slender trees at the edge of the small forest bent with a great rustling of their leaves to the power of the elements. I shivered in my summer clothes and increased my speed.

When I reached the winding road at the foot of the hill, which would eventually lead to the village, sheets of yellow and green light above the small plateau where I had spent the night promised a real thunderstorm in the near future. It would be better to weather the storm at the pub of the village. If I made it there in time, I thought, glancing up at the sky, which was turning darker by the minutes behind me.

**ooo**

The road was steep and narrow, where it led up the next hillock. I was flushed and sweaty by the time I had reached the top of the hill. But when I looked before me, I was relieved to see that it was not far to the village now, and that the road sloped down a long, soft incline towards the village. Easy walking for the last one or two kilometres.

And where the village was situated, the sun was still shining brightly.

When I turned around and looked back, the thunderstorm had already started on the summit of the hill where I had spent the night. I watched this curious display of the elements for a moment. Flashes of lightning tore through the dark clouds, and the rain swept across the hills and the fields in a thick, silvery veil.

If the wind turned only a bit, there would be the most beautiful rainbow, I thought.

I loved rainbows. Once I had even painted the sequence of a rainbow's colours, when there had been an exceptionally large and shining rainbow visible from my room's window.  
I had the picture framed and hung it above my desk.  
Whenever I looked at it, I remembered the rainbow, and thought about what kind of treasures might be hidden at its end; it always made me happy and hopeful to look at the clumsy picture and its bright colours.

I shook my head. The picture had ended up in the trash bin when I had moved out for university. Why had I done that? I mused. If the picture had meant so much to me once, why had I cast it away so easily?

I sighed and turned around again. Looking across to the village in its spot of sunlight, I vowed not to be that stupid again. From now on, I would do my very best to find out where I belonged, who I was, and what my place in the world would be. I would be careful with my dreams and my doubts, and never again cast them aside as easily as I had done it in the past.

When I started down the slope towards the village, the wind changed and blew a thin shower of cool summer rain across my skin, and the road. Within seconds the asphalt was gleaming wetly. A cloud passed in front of the sun, and the world turned dark. But the twilight lasted only for a few moments, and then the cloud was blown away, and the sun shone directly into my face.

I squeezed my eyes shut against the sudden brightness. When I opened my eyes again, I looked directly into the swirling colours of a rainbow.  
Suddenly I recalled the conversation from the night before.

"You know what they say about the rainbows, do you… At the end of the rainbow you will find your greatest treasure."  
"I thought you were supposed to find a pot of gold there."  
"If that is your greatest treasure…"

The greatest treasure… what was the greatest treasure for me this very minute? I mused. What did I desire above everything else?  
The answer was deceptively simple.  
I wanted to know about Lothíriel.

I wanted to know where I belonged.  
I wanted to know who I was.  
I wanted to know what the purpose of my existence was.

But as much as I had tried, I had not found any clues to answer those questions up until now. If I was honest with myself, the older I grew the more they seemed to elude my grasp, the lonelier I felt, out of place and homeless in Germany at the brink of the twenty-first century.  
If only it was true that there were other worlds, lost in time and space, which could be reached by stepping on to magical herbs or walking through circles of standing stones…

If only…

I looked up, my cheeks wet with soft drops of rain and unexpected tears.  
It really looked as if the rainbow ended just on the road in front of me.  
Enthralled I gazed at the swirling colours in front of me.  
Red, orange, yellow, green, blue-violet, exquisitely clear colours seemed to dance around me in the gently humid air.  
The colours seemed to call me, to beckon me to walk right into their magical beauty.

If only…

I sighed and bowed my head.

_If only…_

**ooo**

I started walking again; perhaps I would reach the village before I was wet through.  
When I looked up again, the rainbow was gone and the thunderstorm seemed to have blown off to the West behind me.  
The air smelled much fresher and cleaner than it had before. A thunderstorm to clear the air, I mused, inhaling deeply. My stomach rumbled suddenly. I raised my eyebrows at myself.

Hungry again?  
Well, then, off to the village and the pub!

But when I made the next step, I hesitated, staring at the road nonplussed.  
Hadn't the road been a comparatively new asphalt covered street?  
Now it looked more like a country lane than a road. Now it was nothing but a stretch of bare, brown earth leading up to the village in front of me.

I looked at the village and rubbed my eyes. I blinked.

The village had not sported any fortifications or town walls a moment ago. Now I was looking at a deep dike, which encircled the village from hillside to hillside, and behind the dike was a thick thorny hedge, which would dissuade any but the most determined intruders. I blinked again. And what had happened to the church and its steeple, with the bell I had listened to yesterday?

Now, there was no church in sight. And the village, formerly situated in a valley between several soft hills, was built upon the slopes of the only hill in sight; all around the country was more or less level, a country of fields and small woods.

I turned around.

Behind me was neither a rainbow nor the dark clouds of a passing thunderstorm.  
Behind me, the brown ribbon of the road disappeared in a soft haze of mists and low green hills. The sun, an evening sun, turning into a reddish-golden glow was shining on the road behind me.

I turned around again.

A dike, a hedge, a hill, no church.

I was not where I had been a moment ago.

My heart started to race, and my stomach did a somersault.

I was not where I was before I had walked into the rainbow.

I was not in Franconia anymore.  
I was somewhere else!

But where?

I turned around once more, taking in all the differences of the surrounding landscape.  
It did not look very much different from Europe.  
But it felt different to me.  
Why?  
I frowned.  
Apart from the fact that I knew that I was not where I had been a moment ago, it did not look very much different from Franconia or other European landscapes. Why did it feel different nevertheless?  
For a long moment I could not come up with an answer. Then I remembered an idiotic pun… as you can see, you can see nothing, and why you can't see, you'll see in a blink…

Nothing.

That was what was different!

It was so very, very quiet. There was no noise of distant cars or machines. And the air was so very cool and clear. And the country, too, it was really empty. Although I could see quite far from where I was standing, the village and the road were the only sign of civilization. The landscape was positively empty! There were no other roads, no tractors, no houses, no pylons, no planes in the air.

Where had I come to?

I looked back at the village.  
There was only one way to find out.

And I was still hungry.


	5. The Prancing Pony

**5. The Prancing Pony**

The road crossed the dike by a causeway made of thick wooden planks. Behind the causeway was an opening in the thorny expanse of the hedge. I inhaled deeply, gathering my nerve and walked on. A huge gate of solid wood, reinforced with metal fittings, was set in the opening of the hedge. It was open, but there was a gatekeeper's house just behind the hedge on its left hand side, and a burly man with straggly brown hair and squinting, dark eyes sat on a bench in front of it. He wore dark pants and a tunic with a grey key stitched on its front. In his hand he held a long pike, and he looked as if he knew how to wield the weapon.

When he noticed me, he rose from the bench and walked towards me. "What do you want in Bree, and where do you come from?" he asked, his voice rough and his pronunciation broad with brogue.

I blinked at him, astounded. What kind of language was that? And why did I understand it? It felt to me like English, which I understood and spoke almost as well as German, but it wasn't. It did not sound like any language I had ever heard. It was not a roman language, neither French nor Spanish, and it was not a language from the East, neither Russian nor Polish sounded like that.

Bree!

"Bree?" My astonished question was out of my mouth before I noticed the mounting suspicion on the gatekeeper's face.  
"Yes, Bree. Bree in Breeland, if you please. Now, who are you? What's your business? And who can vouch for you?" he growled at me.

I stared at him, at a loss for words. Bree! I knew of Bree in Breeland, of course. It was a village of Middle-earth.  
Middle-earth? I was in Middle-earth?!

My heart was beating like a drum, and I could barely keep from shouting with joy. So it was real, I had known it all along that it was real! And now I was here! Oh, what a wonderful kind of magic! Thank you, dear God, thank you!

"Who can vouch for you?" the gatekeeper repeated, taking another step towards me and lifting his pike menacingly.

I swallowed, my delight at finding myself in Middle Earth vanishing quickly as the weapon swung closer to my face. Vouch for me? I did not know anyone here at all! I wildly looked around, considering to make a break for it and to just run off, when I noticed a dark stranger keeping to the shadows behind the gatekeeper's lodge.  
He did not look like Viggo Mortensen. But in my mind there was no doubt at all as to who the tall dark man was, who lingered in the shadows of the small house, watching the gate.

Perhaps I did know someone here after all.

I pointed at the ranger and said as calmly as I could: "He knows me. He will vouch for me.  
I am Lothíriel, and I am a ranger, too."  
The gatekeeper turned around at once, looking at the dark man full of suspicion. "You are that ranger, aren't you? The one they call Strider? This –" He threw me a scornful glance out of the corners of his eyes. "This… woman says that you will vouch for her. Do you? Is she really one of your kin? A ranger?" He spit to the ground forcefully. Apparently he did not think much of rangers.

Strider walked up to us. He was tall and slender, but not at all slim; his movements were powerful and fluid. There was no need to attach a sign saying "keep off, dangerous warrior", he only had to take two steps and any sensible person would run for cover. He wore high leather boots, which went up above his knees; they were obviously well made but muddy and worn all the same. His pants, tunic and shirt were of different shades of grey, tough cloth of a good quality but frayed at the edges. Around his shoulders he wore a long cloak of heavy dark-green cloth, which was stained with travel and patched in several spots. His hair fell in slight waves down to his shoulders. It was very dark, a shade too light for black but not really brown either. His eyes were grey and very bright and, at the moment, very angry. Angry at me.

I looked up at him and wished to be a mouse with a handy hole to vanish into nearby. No such luck. Looking at Aragorn I tried to widen my eyes into a look of silent pleading. You always read about people doing that. But it is really hard in real life, especially when caught between a suspicious gatekeeper armed with a pike and an angry ranger.

Please, I thought at Aragorn. Please tell him that you know me. Please. I have nowhere to go!  
I swallowed hard, as I realized that I really had nowhere to go. I was where I always wanted to be, but I had even less a place where I belonged in this Middle-earth than I had back home.

Piercing eyes looked me up and down.

I must have been a sight, I guess. Black trekking shoes, dark blue jeans, a blue man's shirt worn loosely above the jeans – I am quite a tall girl, and although I have never been fat, I have never been thin, either; I have womanly curves, think golden twenties, when women did not yet have to look like children; but it's nicer to wear loose shirts when hiking and you have a nice bust – , a faded black leather jacket and an almost new outdoor-backpack in a pretty camouflage pattern; I have straight brown hair, which I keep very long, because I hate going to the hairdresser's, it goes down to the small of my back. My eyes are kind of muddy, as if they could not decide whether to turn green or brown. They settled on a non-descript colour in between. Muddy. I sport a child-like snub-nose and a stubborn chin. My skin is very dry and sensitive, which makes me look older than I am, with tiny wrinkles at the corners of my eyes. What I like about me is my mouth, which I think is quite sensuous, with a lovely, natural, rosy shade. Perhaps I am vaguely pretty. But I am neither beautiful, nor do I look like a ranger. If anything, I guess I looked like what I was: a runaway law student. Not a very helpful appearance at the gates of Bree, Middle-earth.

Aragorn caught my eyes in his bright grey gaze. He seemed to see to the bottom of my soul. How could anyone mistake him for a harmless ranger?

I am harmless, I thought frantically. Please help me!

Aragorn turned to the gatekeeper, who was almost a full head smaller than the ranger. "I know her. She is a distant relation of mine. Let her pass."

I almost gasped with relief. The gatekeeper did not look convinced, but one look at Aragorn's grim face made him bow and back away to his bench rapidly.

Aragorn took hold of my arm with a vice-like grip and towed me away from the door. When we were out of earshot, he lowered his head and hissed at me. "Now. Who are you really, where do you come from, what do you want, how did you know me? Speak quickly. And remember, I will know if you lie!"

I gulped. I would never be able to shake off his iron grip. And behind me waited the gatekeeper with his pike and nasty eyes.  
"My name is Lothíriel. I, I am, I was a law student. I come from another world. I think, I think I met a wizard. He sent me here, I think. I wanted, I wanted to find another world. I did not fit in… I was not happy… I did not belong… where, where I come from."

Aragorn looked at me thoughtfully. Then an expression of scorn mixed with curiosity passed across his face. But apparently he was satisfied as to the truthfulness of my answers, because he let go of my arm. "And you think that gives you the right to abandon your home?" He asked me in a low, stern voice. "And you still have not told me, how you know me."

Abandon my home. I clenched my teeth. If anyone had needed me at all, back home, I would probably still be there, however unhappy. Had Aragorn ever been that judgmental in the books? I gritted my teeth and hissed at him. "That's none of your business, Aragorn. And it's a long story, how I know you. And it probably should not be told in the open, where anyone might hear it." I glared at him.

To my satisfaction he literally jumped at the mention of his real name. He narrowed his eyes at me, and swiftly caught my elbow again in an unbreakable grip. "Right. Then come with me, Lothíriel. If you are kin, I should take care of you. I have lodgings at the Inn of "The Prancing Pony". It is almost full, but I am sure you will not object to sharing a room with your UNCLE," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

I only nodded, and did my best to keep up with his quick pace and long stride, as he proceeded down the village street, passing a few detached houses, heading for the centre of the village. He finally stopped in front of one of the largest buildings of the village.

It was three stories high with many brightly lit windows. Behind the fore-front of the house, which faced the road, two wings extended to the back, built right into the hill rising at its back. To the right was a wide arch, which led into a cobbled courtyard, where I glimpsed the structures of low wooden stables and barns. To the left was a large doorway, which could be reached by five broad steps made of slabs of granite. At the centre of the steps the hard stone had been worn down into grooves by countless feet treading the steps during years uncounted, but the door was quite new, made of solid wood and painted green, just like the shutters and the edges of the archway leading into the courtyard. Above the archway an old-fashioned iron lamp was suspended from a hook inserted into the wall, and underneath it a wooden sign was swaying in the breeze. The sign depicted a fat, rearing white pony on a green meadow, and above the door, painted in white letters on a field of green, which was artistically curling at the corners, I could read the name of the pub: "The Prancing Pony by Barliman Butterbur".

I gaped at the sign, and would have remained staring at the letters, had not Aragorn tightened his hold on my arm, and literally dragged me up the stairs and into the pub.  
Without really turning, Aragorn told someone at the reception, "This is my niece. Is it possible that you get her a room? If not, she will share my room. Then please have another cot put in."  
I did not get the reply, because Aragorn was already manhandling me into the guestroom and on into a private niche of the adjoining separate room. "You stay here. Do not move or you will live to regret it."

With that he was gone, and hardly daring to breathe, far from even thinking of moving or running away, I cautiously looked around the room. Aragorn had left me in a berth like cubbyhole. It was a niche at the small side of the separate room, which adjoined the big common room of the inn, clearly designed for private dealings of the guests. It was completely panelled with dark wood, which had darkened with age and smoke to make it impossible to tell whether it had originally been oak or pine. There was a small wooden table and narrow wooden benches on either side of the table. The opening to the benches was quite narrow; you had to squeeze past the edge of the table. But once inside it was snug and comfortable, and with the separate room as yet empty as private as you could wish. I stuck my backpack into the corner of my bench and waited.

Only a moment later, Aragorn returned with two mugs of beer. He placed one in front of me, and then looked up frowning. "You drink beer, do you?"

That was the nicest thing he had said to me up until now.

I smiled and nodded. "Yes, I do. Thank you."  
He nodded curtly, surveyed the room with his penetrating gaze, and then settled on the other bench with his tankard of beer. I lifted my mug and saluted him. I drank deeply. It was dark beer, and it was good. It was not as strong as I was used to, probably because of the medieval brewing methods of Middle Earth, but it was tart, cool and refreshing. Ahh!

I sat down the mug and looked into deep, dark eyes, which reflected the flickering flame of the oil lamp, which was hanging above the table.  
"Now, how do you know me? And how do you come by the name of Lothíriel? Because that is a name of this world and it means 'blossom-female'; and it is a Dúnadan name, too."

I sighed. He had cut right to the point. How should I explain?  
"We know of your world, in our world, sort of. There are… stories, fairy tales about your world in my world. They are quite well known, and well loved by many people." I would really like to know how Mr. Tolkien came up with those stories if Middle Earth really exists! Not to mention how he wrote about things, which had apparently not yet happened in the Middle Earth I had stumbled into.  
"My mother loved those stories, too. And my name is somewhere in those stories, too, though I don't really know where. I guess she just liked the sound of it. That's why I am Lothíriel. I did not know it had any meaning."

Aragorn was staring at me, disbelief plain on his face.  
"You know about me? Out of tales? Tales, which are famous in your world?"

It did not sound very believable. "Yes. That's what I said. Don't you believe me?" I stared right back at him, challenging him to ask me for proof. And he did.

"Then tell me something about me, something you could not possibly know. For my name you could have possibly heard… somewhere. Especially – " And his voice grew icy. "Especially, if you are an enemy."

I gulped nervously and leaned as far back away from the table as I could.  
What should I tell him? It had to be something no one could know, and something, which would convince him that I was not an enemy!  
"You are Aragorn, Arathorn's son, descendant of Isildur, Elendil's son. And you love an Elvish princess, Arwen Undómiel, the daughter of Elrond Peredhel. You wear a silver pendant around your neck, which she gave you in Rivendell."  
Or had that been only in the movies? He did not look like in the movies!

He stared at me expressionlessly for a second, and then his right hand moved to his chest, to cover something hidden by his clothes.

I exhaled softly. There was an amulet Arwen had given him.

He looked at me gravely. His voice was much friendlier, when he spoke again.  
"I believe you. No one knows about the jewel, not even her father."  
He fell silent for a moment. Then he looked up again, his eyes thoughtful. I knew what he would say next, because the moment I had thought about what I knew about Middle Earth's history, the same thought had occurred to me.  
"If you know about Middle Earth, do you know about what will happen? Have you foreknowledge about the dark days we are facing?"

I could only tell him the truth. "The stories about Middle Earth, which are most famous where I come from, are about… a certain treasure and a… certain enemy and… the end of the third age. But… I am not in those stories. I mean, my name is in there, somewhere, but not in what is going to happen here, and now. I would know about that." Or would I? I rubbed at my temples. The time travel and parallel universes paradox is even more enervating when you are caught up in it than when you are watching Michael J. Fox in "Back to the Future".

Aragorn thumped his right index finger lightly against his lips.  
"Then the stories you know might be changing as we speak, by your mere existence in this time and place… but still, you know much. Too much. You are a very dangerous person, Lothíriel." He looked back at me again, and his eyes were cold, a certain ruthless look was on his face. I could only nod. My stomach was quivering with sudden fear as I realized just how much I knew, and what the things I knew would mean to the enemy. I could hardly keep my teeth from chattering and hot tears were threatening at the corners of my eyes.

I had wanted to find another world, and adventure.  
I had not wanted to bring deathly peril to the heroes of this other world.

Aragorn's cold look turned suddenly warm with sympathy. He sighed softly, and I could see how he accepted yet an additional burden to the many responsibilities he already had to bear.  
He reached out and took my right hand, with which I gripped the mug of beer much too tightly. I let go of the mug and accepted the comforting squeeze. His hand was strong and warm and full of calluses.

"I don't believe in chance. There has to be a reason why you are here, especially if it was a wizard who sent you. And we were lucky that you met me at the gate. I don't think that anyone has noticed anything beyond the curious fact that a run-down ranger has a young and pretty niece, who should not be travelling alone through the wilderness. And you won't do that again. For the time being, I think it will be best, if you stay with me. Niece." He winked at me.

I exhaled a deep sigh of relief. Stay with Aragorn. If anyone could keep me safe, it was Aragorn. Then I recalled the sequence of the story. Aragorn in Bree? Did that mean I had plopped into the story at its very beginning?

My stomach did another somersault.  
I took another swallow of beer.  
I cleared my throat.

Then I asked, "You are not, by chance, here in Bree because you are waiting for some hobbits, are you?"

Aragorn put down his own mug of beer with a low thump.  
"Yes, I am. Why? Is something wrong?"

I slowly shook my head, trying to recall the details of the story, fervently wishing I had read it again in the last weeks. But as it were, the last time I actually read the books had been more than a year ago. The hobbits had reached Bree safely with the help of Tom Bombadil, that much I knew, but of course I could not recall the date.

"No, nothing's wrong, as far as I know… yet. But danger will follow them; black riders are close behind them." I pressed my lips together tightly. I should not say too much. Anything I might say could change things, and I knew too much about chaos theory not to know that any changes might just as easily turn out evil, no matter how good the intentions.

"Black riders!" Aragorn hissed, clenching his fists. "Are you sure? Do you know what they are?" I nodded, my heart in my mouth, my stomach cramping.

Aragorn drained his beer, and then sat down the mug. He looked at me for a moment, his thoughts hidden. "Stay here and have something to eat. Tell Barley to put it on my bill. I will go and have a look around, and try to find the hobbits on the road to Bree. Don't say who you are. If anyone asks, tell them you are… Anniel, my niece, from the North. But if you can help it, just don't talk to anyone at all. Remember, knowledge is a most dangerous treasure."

"Yes," I replied, my voice small and unsteady.

"I will be back as soon as I can." He nodded at me and rose from the bench. He squeezed around the edge of the table and was gone.

I remained sitting where I was, staring at the mug on the table in front of me, my heart racing, and the blood rushing in my ears.

I was scared to death, and the black riders were not even close to Bree yet.

**oooOooo**

* * *

**oooOooo**

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JunoMagic


	6. Cows and Moons and Good Intentions

**6. Cows and Moons and Good Intentions**

Shortly after Aragorn had disappeared, a short fat man with a bald shiny head, merrily twinkling eyes and rosy, dimpled cheeks peeked into the snug. "Would you like something to eat, Mrs. Anniel?"

"Yes, I am really hungry. What would you suggest, Mr. Butterbur?" I asked politely.

"Oh, the daily special is really good tonight. A nice soup of vegetables and mushrooms, and then we have a shepherd's pie and rhubarb trifle for afters."

"I'll have that, then. And another mug of your dark beer, please. It is really delicious. Would you put it on – my uncle's bill, please?"

Mr. Butterbur nodded, pleased with the compliment to his beer. "Yes, I will do that. Mr. Strider told me on his way out. Still something to attend to, has he?"

Not at all curious, the dear Mr. Butterbur… I smiled at him innocently. "I wouldn't know… but my uncle always takes a little walk before dinner. He says it's good for his health."

Mr. Butterbur looked a bit disappointed at this news. "Healthy? Oh, I am sure, I am sure. Now, I must be off, there's such a crowd here tonight. And all of them will be wanting their dinner in a jinx!"

With that he bustled off. And indeed, I could hear the common room grow noisy with the talk of many voices within minutes, as hungry guests came down from their rooms in search of dinner, beer and company. But as the common room was very large and offered enough corners for more reclusive guests, the separate room where I was sitting in the tiny panelled alcove, remained empty for the time being.

**ooo**

My meal arrived no more than five minutes later, carried by snub-nosed, cheery faced hobbit.

My first hobbit!  
Peter Jackson had been astoundingly close to the real thing, I thought and tried very hard not to stare. The hobbit was as tall as a ten or twelve years old child, but the proportions of his body were that of a man grown into his feet, so to speak. As to his feet, they were not noticeably larger than normal, but they were certainly covered with thick, brown curly hair, and even looking at them from above the table, I could see that their soles were thick and leathery from always running around bare-footed.

He served me swiftly, setting down the soup in front of me, laying out knife, fork and spoon, a candle-lit warming rack, upon which he put the covered plate with the shepherd's pie and bowl with a delicious looking rhubarb trifle.

"Thank you," I mumbled. "This looks absolutely great."

The hobbit grinned, bowed to me and was gone. I stared after the hobbit and wondered whether Frodo and the others would be along shortly. But the fragrance of the soup in front of me soon cut through my musings. I took up my spoon and started eating. It was excellent food, fresh vegetables with herbs bringing out distinctive flavours.

**ooo**

When I had finished the soup, Aragorn was suddenly back, slipping back onto the bench across from me.

"Did you see the hobbits?" I asked in a low voice.

He frowned at me, but then he nodded, his face grim. "They are not careful enough."

He looked hungry. And judging from the din of the common room even the quickest hobbit would take some time to get back to us. I kept the spoon and shoved knife and fork at Aragorn.

As I was almost stuffed it was not a horrible sacrifice to take only a third of the shepherd's pie. "It will take them an eternity to get you any food. And when the hobbits come in you will want to keep an eye on them, won't you?"

He again looked at me with an expression that showed me clearly that he did not yet entirely trust me, but he started eating nevertheless.

The shepherd's pie was very good, too. In fact I had not known you could make them this juicy and delectable. Probably because in my world the potato mush comes out of a bag of instant powder, just add water and stir… In this pie there were real potatoes with small unmashed pieces here and there. When I had finished with my third, I knew that there was no way I would fit the trifle on top of soup and pie.

I sighed and pushed the bowl across the table towards Aragorn. "It's a shame, but I'm stuffed. And you look as if you need it."

Eating, the ranger had for a moment let down his guard, making his face appear years younger, and worry and uncertainty plain to see. When he looked up, his features were more or less unreadable again.

I sighed. Again. But why should he trust me, instantly? I had never in my life trusted anyone instantly, and in my world there was no dark enemy…

Suddenly the noise in the common room increased by a whole measure, many very light voices lifted in greetings and questions.  
Aragorn lifted his head, listening. "The hobbits. Stay here," he told me. "I will sit down over there," he pointed to the centre of the adjoining room, from which he would have an obscured view of the common room, but remain fairly unnoticed himself.

"Yes," I said meekly.

** ooo**

Whatever Aragorn thought of me, it was plain that he did not want to leave either the hobbits or me out of his sight. Aragorn settled down on the bench he had indicated, put his mug of beer down in front of him and brought out an intricately carved pipe, which he proceeded to stuff. I sighed once again and turned my mug of beer idly in my hands.

When I looked up, I noticed a small figure approach Aragorn. A hobbit. Frodo?  
I narrowed my eyes. Yes, it was a hobbit, but he was quite tall for a hobbit, perhaps 1.25 meters tall. He had the curly hair I had seen with the hobbit, who had served me at dinner, but his hair was much lighter, a very light, hazel brown, almost a dark blonde colour, and when he turned, I saw that he had very bright blue eyes, and a cleft chin, which gave him an impish, clever look.

Aragorn bent forwards talking to the hobbit, his intense gaze concentrated on Frodo's face. The hobbit drew back stiffly; I could tell from his body language just how uncomfortable he felt under Aragorn's scrutiny. I experienced a pang of sympathy for the hobbit. Aragorn's stare could be very disconcerting. Suddenly Aragorn raised his head, listening.

From the common room heard a bright, merry voice lifted in enthusiasm at the tale the speaker was telling. "And then there was a dragon! That was the most awesome fire work I have ever seen!"

Aragorn hissed something at Frodo, and Frodo's eyes widened slightly with apprehension.  
Then he turned and ran back into the common room.

A moment later the common room fell silent, and I heard a pure, almost boyish voice rose in song. "There is an inn, a merry old inn…"

**ooo**

I froze in my seat. How could I have forgotten about this awful, embarrassing and dangerous incident!

He would repeat the song and at the end, he would take a tumble and disappear.  
My heart started thumping like a drum.  
My mere existence already changed the story.  
Would it be possible, could I possibly?

Loud and long applause swept through the common room.  
Frodo launched in his repetition.  
Many voices joined in on the song, they seemed to know the tune and were quick to remember the words.

Slowly, as if pulled by invisible strings I rose from the bench and made my way to the common room, ignoring the signs Aragorn was making towards me.

When I stepped into the common room, I came to stand right at the edge of the table on which Frodo was standing and singing. On the corner of the table rested a tray full of mugs, which the serving hobbit had put there, who was listening in rapture from the corner of the bar.

My hands grew clammy with cold sweat.  
My gaze fixed on the tray I inched forwards.

The last verse.

Frodo was fooling around on the table, enjoying himself now in spite of it all.

He jumped into the air, turning around in mid-jump – the scene unfolded before my eyes in slow motion: I saw the exact moment when he lost his balance, I hooked my left feet around the leg of the table and let myself fall flat on my face, taking with me the tray, bringing everything down in a horrible crash.

I lay with my face in puddle of ale, when something heavy hit my back. Then the weight lifted and was gone.

Shouting, screaming, an uproar went up around me.

I sat up and brushed at my beer covered shirt.

"Barley, you shouldn't give whores too much to drink, old fool!" A sallow skinned man with slit, evil eyes shouted, looking me up and down with a greedy expression on his face. There were hoots and hollers from the southerners at the long table in the corner.

I blushed and felt tears of shame rise in my eyes.

Barliman Butterbur hastened forwards and helped me to get up. His face was red with anger, as he turned towards the man. "She is no whore! She is the niece of a guest, so just shut you face, Bill." He turned to me. "That was a bit clumsy, Mrs. Anniel. Perhaps you should stick to tea for the rest of the evening! Nob, Nob!" He turned to the hobbit, who had been gaping at me. "Get your woolly head over here and clean up that mess!"

One of the Southerners had risen from his seat and was looking around the common room. "And where has that little singer gone off to? Are you sure that he paid his bill? Perhaps he belongs to this… girl – and they have banded together for some bilking?" It was evident from the look on his face that he for one thought I was a whore, too, no matter what Butterbur had said.

"Yes, where is the singer?"

"Where is Mr. Underhill?"

The din went up again, as everyone turned to look for Frodo.

"He can't have just vanished!"

"He's bilked and run!" Shouted one of the pot-bellied Bree-landers gathered at one of the round tables.

"He's not," Barliman objected, exasperation plain in his voice. "He's welcome to go where he will. It was a mistake on the part of the girl, just a bit of clumsiness, happens every day."

"But he's gone!" The Bree-lander repeated obstinately.

"And I say there's some mistake! You can't expect Mr. Underhill to stay lying in that mess the girl created, now can you!" Butterbur hissed. I backed away as unobtrusively as I could manage, fading back into the shadows of the separate room.

"Of course there's a mistake," Frodo said, walking into the common room. "I am no bilker, thank you kindly for those polite notions!" He nodded at the Bree-lander. "I've just been having a few words with Strider in the corner." He took one look around, then signed to two hobbits in front of the bar to come with him and turned back to the separate room at the back of the common room. Reluctantly the other guests turned their attention back to their own affairs. But the spirit of the evening had been broken, and soon the first guests were leaving, muttering dark suspicions about the kinds of guests Barliman was admitting on his premises these days.

I slunk back into the shadowy back room and slumped down on the bench.

**ooo**

At once Aragorn rounded on to me, his voice harsh with anger. "You tell me you know what is happening here, and then you go and pull this kind of stunt, what ever possessed you! We don't need any attention drawn to us! And you have no idea what those sorts of men will do to you now, if they catch you on your own!" His eyes were blazing with fury and I desperately wished for a mouse-hole into which I could vanish, so small and stupid did I feel under his scolding.

"I – I – look, I did it because I knew what was going to happen. I know you will never believe me, but Frodo would have fallen down even without me, and then he would have vanished in plain sight. I, I just thought, creating a more obvious disturbance would maybe be better."  
I did not look up. The explanation sounded silly in my own ears.

"I don't believe you." Aragorn said with grim finality.

"But," a light voice suddenly interrupted from behind me. "She is right. I don't understand how she can possibly know what happened, but it's exactly the way she says. I don't know how it could happen! I just don't understand…"

I looked up and saw Frodo standing next to me, looking at me and Strider with alarm on his face.

Favouring me with another disbelieving glare, Aragorn turned to Frodo. "Then you've really put your foot in it – or should I say, your finger? Mister Baggins?"

"I don't know what you mean." Frodo objected, his voice shaking.

"Oh, yes, you do! And I should like to have a quiet word about it with you, now that the uproar has died down." Aragorn got up, effectively dismissing any further objections. "Let's go. It is a matter of great importance to both of us, and you may hear something to your advantage."

Frodo eyed Aragorn suspiciously, but nodded, a look of tired defeat on his face. He was thoroughly shaken by the incident with the ring. "Very well. But my friends will come with me."

Aragorn turned back to me. "You stay in there," he hissed. "Do not move! And do not talk to anyone!" I gulped and nodded.

Frodo bowed to me. "Miss." Then he followed Aragorn out of the room.

**ooo**

I slipped into back into the alcove onto my bench. I stared full of disgust at the mug of weak beer, which was still standing where I had left it.

My attempt at saving the hour and not turned out quite the way I had intended it.  
I looked down at the dried stains of beer on my shirt and recalled the jeering voices and the leering faces. My cheeks were burning with the memory of their shouts still in my ears.  
But I had changed the story, hadn't I? It could have been worse, couldn't it?  
However, the ring had still slipped on Frodo's finger and alerted the black riders. They would be on their way into Bree this very minute.

And Merry would be somewhere outside, all alone in the dark.

I was out of the alcove without stopping to think.

"Nob, Nob," I called to the hobbit clearing away Aragorn's mug and ashtray. "Do you know where Mr. Brandybuck is? One of the hobbits out of the Shire staying for the night?"

Nob turned around, obviously thinking hard. "I think he went outside for a walk. Quite some time ago. He should be back by now, now that you mention it." He scratched his head. "Why do you ask?"

I hesitated. Good lies are simple lies, I remembered. "His friends have gone off to have a talk with Strider; they were worried because he had not yet returned. Could he have gotten lost?"

Now worry dawned on Nob's face. "Aye, now that you mention it, Miss, for foreign folk Bree would be a big place, where they might easily lose their bearings… should I be going and look for him?"

I sighed with relief. "Yes, please, that would be very helpful!"

Nob nodded and smiled at me encouragingly. "Don't worry, Miss, I will find him, and Bree's a peaceful place, nothing untoward is likely to happen here."  
With that he bustled off.

Nothing untoward… I could only hope so. But there was a shadow of fear in my heart, which would not lift. I returned to my mug of stale beer and waited.


	7. Black Riders in Bree

**7. Black Riders in Bree  
**

I sat huddled on my bench in the alcove and felt ashamed and subdued by what had happened. What if the fact that in my world the story of the rings was already complete meant that nothing could be changed, except for the worse? The ring had slipped onto Frodo's finger in spite of my foolish stunt, and now the enemy was alerted to the presence of a foreign girl… me… Small wonder that Aragorn had been furious with me. Good intentions do, after all, pave the road to hell…

Somehow I could not keep my thoughts off the enemies closing in on Bree. I felt unreasonable fear grown in my heart. Was that a dark shadow outside the window over there? But the riders had come to the rooms of the hobbits only deep in the night, and the inn itself had never been attacked, I told myself. A small voice inside of my mind, however, kept nagging. But that was the story, which did not have a foreign girl falling over her feet in the common room…

I swallowed nervously and looked around for any unusual shadows. My heart was racing, its somewhat irregular beat echoing in my ears. I kept rubbing my clammy fingers across my thighs. I tried to keep my breaths shallow, but I felt already somewhat light-headed from a fear driven by pure instinct. It was the kind of instinct, which tells the rabbit to run no matter what, even though it will drive it right in front of the hunter's gun.

Suddenly the lights in the room were extinguished.

The corners of the room seemed to turn into fathomless abyssal of gloom. Tendrils of darkness seemed to unfold from the corners, tentacles of black shadows slowly glided through the room. They were searching for something. They were looking for someone. I looked at the window, and my heart skipped a beat. I stopped breathing, frozen with panic. The window pane was covered in frost. But behind the fragile flowers of icy mist frozen to the glass loomed a darkness, which was darker than the darkest moonless night, a darkness, which denied the very existence of light. A darkness, which cast a shadow into the room, which was almost as black as the horror, which waited outside the door.

I could not move. I could not breathe.

All I could do was watch the tentacles of shadow slowly inching their way across the worn wooden planks of the floor towards the alcove. The tendrils of darkness had almost reached the snug where I was sitting.

I wanted to scream, but I could not even open my mouth.

**ooo**

Suddenly a lantern lit the room. The shadow hesitated for a second and then it was gone.

Seconds later a woolly head was thrust into my field of vision. It was Nob, the hobbit, still out of breath from running. "I found him, Mrs. Anniel, I found him, Mr. Brandybuck. But something's happened to him! I guess you'd better come with me!" He turned on his heel, running of.

I grabbed my backpack and followed him as fast as I managed with my knees wobbly from fear.

**ooo**

Nob led me to the hobbit rooms in the North wing of the inn. At the end of a short passage I saw a small figure throwing open a door and running inside. Nob followed the figure as fast as he could, with me hard on his woolly heels. The room was a small parlour with a round table and a number of comfortable chairs. It was well lit by a large fire in the fire place, an oil lamp which was suspended from the ceiling by a brass chain and a chandelier with five tapering candles at the centre of the table.

The small figure I had glimpsed racing into the room was another hobbit, this one with dark, almost black hairs and dark brown eyes, which were wide with shock at the moment.

"… black riders!" he gasped the moment I entered the room just behind Nob.

Frodo jumped up from his chair. "Black Riders! Where?"

At the table two more hobbits were sitting, looking alarmed and frightened at the sudden entrance of their friend with his face white as a sheet and a dire warning on his lips.

"In the village!" Merry cried, and explained in a rush what had happened, speaking so quickly it was hard to understand.

Aragorn was in the room, too. He had been standing in the shadow next to the fire place, but now stepped into the light, his posture tall and commanding. Now he spoke and his voice was sharp. "Which way did it go?"

Merry jumped at the new voice and the travel-worn, not precisely confidence inspiring appearance of the ranger.

"Go on," Frodo urged his friend impatiently. "This is a friend of Gandalf's. I will explain later."

Merry told about his desire for a bit of peace and quiet and a breath of air, how he had seen the black figure and how he had followed it down the East road, drawn by its dark power against his will, and how he had observed it meeting someone by the hedge.

"Mrs. Anniel here was worried," Nob piped up. "Mr. Butterbur agreed and sent me out to look for Mr. Brandybuck with a lantern." He explained how he had found Merry, and how the hobbit had run back to the inn like a frightened hare. "And when I went into the separate room to tell Mrs. Anniel that I had found Mr. Brandybuck, all the lights were out and it was all cold and queer, and she was sitting as if frozen to the bench." The hobbit turned towards me. "My pardon, Mrs. Anniel, but you looked as if you had seen a ghost or something, all white and shaking."

Five hobbits looked at me, their faces full of curiosity, but Aragorn's expression was grave and worried. "What happened in the common room, Lothíriel?"

I swallowed, trying to calm my racing heart with no success. My voice sounded high and frightened when I spoke. "Everything went dark. The window was suddenly covered in ice. There were shadows on the floor, which seemed to be moving on their own, as if they were looking for something. But when Nob came, with his lantern, the shadows drew back. I don't know why it got to me like that."

Merry nodded. "Nor do I. I am not normally such a scaredy-cat. I don't understand what happened."

"I do," Aragorn said, "That was the Black Breath you felt, both of you. The evil power of the Black Riders lives in the shadows of night and fear. They must have left their horses hidden outside of Bree and slipped into town by stealth. By now they will know all the rumours about four hobbits and a strange girl staying at 'The Prancing Pony'. They might even decide to strike this very night!"

"What will happen?" Merry asked, his dark eyes wide with fright. My voice trembling I added. "Will they attack the inn?"

"I do not think so, " Aragorn said with a sigh, but when his gaze fell on me, a look of apprehension crossed his face. I shivered with the memory of the groping shadows in the common room. "Not all of them are here yet. And they rarely attack openly. Their strength is based on darkness and loneliness. A house full of light and many people they will only attack if they are desperate or certain of victory. And they are far away from… their home. However, their power lies in the terror they inspire. They manipulate lesser men easily. Already some inhabitants of Bree are under their spell and some of the travellers are sure to be in their clutch, too. Bill Ferny, the gatekeeper and some of the more polite guests…" Aragorn raised an eyebrow at me. I gulped and looked to the ground. I would try and act as if I knew nothing about what was going to happen from now on.

"Already we are surrounded by enemies," Frodo exclaimed. "What are we to do?"

"We stay here for the night. Do not go to your rooms. Those hobbit rooms are easily accessible from the outside, they are close to the ground and their windows face north. Nob and I will go and fetch your luggage."

Nob bowed and left at once. Aragorn stepped up to me. "Stay here; do not open the door for anyone but me. Do not tell them where you come from. Do not tell them anything you might think you know."

I nodded wordlessly, my heart in my mouth.

**ooo**

I walked over to the table and slumped down on a chair. It was quite small, but my knees were almost too wobbly to remain standing another minute. Frodo told Merry about the incident in the common room, Gandalf's letter and Aragorn. Then the hobbits turned to me, their eyes inquisitive, and Sam openly showing the same misgivings he had had about Aragorn, along with an unspoken comment about a girl's appropriate attire and behaviour.

"You'd better tell us who you are and why you did what you did in the common room," Merry said. I stared at their faces, Aragorn's orders still in my ears.

"Aragorn said I should not tell you. My name is Lothíriel, I am twenty-four years old and I come from… from… far away," I concluded lamely.

"That does not tell us anything," Sam objected. "And I don't think this… Aragorn, or Strider, I don't think he trusts her."

Pippin, the hobbit with the reddish-brown hairs and pointiest ears nodded. "You're right, Sam." He looked up at me. "Who tells us that you are not a spy?"

Merry watched me from across the table, suspicion and fear apparent on his face.

I gritted my teeth and felt a lump in my throat. I was in a strange world, where no one knew me, and everyone I met either thought I was an enemy or a whore. I felt tears rise to my eyes and blinked furiously. "I am not a spy. I am not an enemy. I am not a whore. Women wear what I do all the time where I come from. I have no idea how I got here and why I am here. I only wanted to help you."

Suddenly I felt the warm touch of a small hand on my cold fingers. I looked up and into Frodo's bright blue eyes. He looked worried, but sympathetic. "I believe that you wanted to help. I don't think that you belong to the enemy." He turned to the others. "Look, I don't know how she knew, but maybe that's not important. But imagine if I had simply vanished into thin air in front of the crowd that would have been far worse than the commotion she caused with her tumble. Think about what Ferny could have told the… enemies if he had witnessed me becoming invisible! They might even decide to attack the inn openly, if they were sure about… things." He shuddered, and the others looked very frightened indeed at his suggestion of this awful alternative.

"Thank you," I whispered.

Frodo nodded and sat back down next to Sam. He talked to his faithful servant and friend in a low voice. Sam looked at me with a mutinous expression on his face, but then he nodded and turned his gaze away from me. Merry and Pippin did not say anything, but I could almost see their sharp minds thinking things through. No matter what Aragorn decided to tell them about me, they would work this riddle out eventually. I sighed.

Merry finally bent over Gandalf's letter, and was still reading it and trying to understand all its implications when Strider and Nob returned with the packs of the hobbits.  
**  
**

** ooo**

Nob explained grinning about how he had fashioned almost life-like forms of sleeping hobbits with additional blankets and cushions to deceive anyone looking through the windows into believing that the hobbits were in their beds, deeply asleep. But Aragorn did not sound convinced when he told them that he was hopeful to hold the fort of the parlour room until the morning even if the disguise was penetrated.

We piled the bags and gear on the floor, shut the windows, barred them with the heavy inside shutters and pushed a low chair as a barricade against the door. The hobbits spread out their blankets in front of the hearth and lay down with the soles of their hairy feet pointing towards the warmth of the fire. I moved two low chairs front to front and curled up on them in the corner. Aragorn stacked the fire for the night and put out the lamp and the candles. Then he sat down in the chair in front of the door. The hobbits whispered amongst themselves for a while, but soon fell asleep, the sound of their snoring slowly fading into deep slumber.  
I watched Aragorn silently smoking his pipe for a long time, trying to understand what had happened to me, and why it had happened.

Eventually I fell asleep, too.

**ooo**

Although I had known that the bedrooms of the hobbits would be invaded during the night and the beds destroyed, the cushions slashed open, I was just as frightened as the hobbits, when Aragorn led us into the hobbit-rooms in the morning. Knowing things and seeing things for one-self are two very different things, and I could all too easily imagine torn and bleeding dead bodies in the place of the ravaged mats and cut bolsters.

When Barliman Butterbur came hurrying into the room, completely flustered and upset, telling us about the missing ponies, I wanted to kick myself. How could I have forgotten about the ponies! If I had remembered about the ponies, they could perhaps have been taken to a safer stable or a guard could have been appointed! The company could have been at the Weathertop in time to meet Gandalf and Frodo might not be wounded by the dark rider, and… I gritted me teeth once again, and wanted nothing so much as to beat my head against the wall. I simply could not think of any other reason for my presence here than that I should try and change things, try to prevent some of the dangers, which befell the companions on their dangerous journey. Up until now I had failed abysmally.

Or was Aragorn right, and I could not change things?

I stayed silent at breakfast and during the three hours' delay caused by the loss of the ponies. At around ten o'clock we were finally ready to get going. The pony, which had been purchased from Bill Ferny, was a small bony animal. It looked as frightened as I felt and would not let anyone close to it save Sam.

There was quite a crowd of onlookers gathered at the sides of the streets, watching our mottled company with undisguised curiosity. We said farewell to Mr. Butterbur, Nob and Bob and walked down the main road of Bree, as there was no way to get away unnoticed. No one seemed to have remained inside the house. Children and teenagers were following us and at the sides of the road the adult inhabitants of Bree were standing and watching us. Some of them were cheering us on, quite good-naturedly, but many of the shouts and jeers were mean and insulting. And quite a few of them were directed at me. When the first stone narrowly missed my head, Aragorn made me walk between him and Frodo.

It was a miserable way to leave Bree, and not even Sam's well-aimed throw of a hard apple at Bill Ferny's nose improved the atmosphere markedly. I was relieved, when the escort of jeering children finally got tired of their games and jokes and turned back to Bree.

The road was muddy from the rain, which had fallen during the night. I had to watch my steps to prevent me from slipping in the sludge. We stayed on the road for several miles. The road curved around Bree-hill, and then sloped down towards a densely wooded country. Aragorn pointed out Staddle on the south-eastern incline of Bree-hill and the thin trails of smoke, which indicated the village of Combe.

Finally we left the road on a narrow trail leading off to the North. Aragorn led the way in confident, long strides. The hobbits, small as they were, followed him swiftly, and the pony seemed to be quite eager to leave Bree far behind. Realizing that I was by no means a ranger and not even up to the speed of small hobbit feet, I dropped back to bring up the rear. It was not easy to keep up the pace Aragorn and the hobbits set, and soon I had no room for any thought but walking, breathing, walking.

Aragorn had explained where we were going, though his explanations could not have meant much more to the hobbits than they did to me. He would walk towards Archet at first, but pass it on its eastern edge, and then head as directly as possible for Weathertop Hill, going through the Midgewater Marshes to cut off some extra miles of the road.

Although I was hard put to it to keep up the speed of Aragorn and the hobbits, the walking was not actually unpleasant. The sun was shining, and the woods of the valley were still green and smelt of humid earth and plants and leaves. If I had had any notion of where we were going to begin with, I soon lost any sense of direction with the many turns and twists Aragorn took us, to throw off any pursuit.

But whether it was luck or the superior skill of the ranger, we did not meet anyone at all that day. I fell asleep instantly in the evening, exhausted by the long day's walking.

**ooo**

The next day I had blisters on my feet and wanted to scream at every step I took. Apart from that, the day was quite peaceful and brought us to trail, which led steadily towards the East.

Aragorn scolded me in the evening for not telling him about my feet. He slathered the blisters with a foul smelling, yellow ointment. In the morning I felt a new woman.

The third day saw us leaving the Chetwood. We had reached an empty expanse of grassy plains, now and then interspersed with hedges and thickets of thorny bushes. There were any number of small trails made by animals, and I have no idea how Aragorn knew which of the thousands of paths was the right one. Around noon the ground became damp. We were getting close to the marshes now, and between boggy patches we passed small dark pools of water and wide areas of reeds and rushes. The air was full of the singing of many birds living in this wilderness of grass and water.

During the afternoon it became increasingly difficult to pick out passages and trails. Even Aragorn had to watch his steps now and had to turn back and retrace his steps now and then to lead us another way to keep our feet dry. The open stretches of water in the swamp-lands around us grew with every mile we left behind us. Above those dark expanses of water flies and midgets were hanging in great silvery clouds.

I spent five minutes coughing after I had inhaled some of those midgets. "Wait a moment," I called out to the others and put down my backpack.

"I am being eaten alive," Pippin complained, and Sam wondered what the midges might live on when they could not get hobbits.

I pulled out a thin silken scarf out of my pack and knotted it around my nose and mouth to keep of the midges. Then I remembered something even better. I had a bottle of mosquito repellent among my things.

I took out the yellow plastic bottle and held it triumphantly into the air. "I have something to ward off the midgets. You slather it onto your faces and the uncovered skin of your arms and legs."

The hobbits crowded around me. Sam looked at the bottle suspiciously, but his face was red and blotchy, so he decided to try the lotion, too.

Aragorn looked at the bottle and the foreign letters on its bright yellow surface apprehensively. When he looked up at me, I knew that he did not trust me yet, and that the strange material of the bottle and the alien writing had not, in fact, aided my case. But he did try the lotion, smelling it, tasting it and applying it to his face and arms.

We continued through the marshes, and to my intense relief, the repellent worked. When we made camp that night, Sam came up to me and told me gruffly, that, with good stuff like that maybe I wasn't in league with the enemy after all. Aragorn was watching me from the other side of the fire. It would take more than a mosquito repellent to convince Aragorn. And as I had no real knowledge about what had happened to me and what exactly my presence in this story, in this world might mean, I had no real arguments to win him over.

**ooo**

I spent the night listening to the deafening concert of the myriads of crickets living in the marshes. The hobbits found the "Neekerbreekers", as Sam had dubbed them, enervating. To me, the sound was comforting, reminding me of peaceful summer evenings in another world. If we made it to Rivendell, would Elrond or Gandalf know why I was here? Would they be able to tell me if I should stay? And why? Or if there was a way back to the world I had left?

My midge repellent was gone in the middle of the next afternoon. Millions of midgets, four hobbits, one man, one woman and only one small bottle of lotion: an obviously lost cause. I chucked the empty bottle into one of the dark pools at the edge of our trail and hoped we would get out of the marshes soon.  
**  
**

** ooo**

We spent the fourth evening in itching misery. Falling asleep I noticed flashes of lightning at the eastern horizon. Thinking that a thunderstorm on top of those miserable marshes would really make my day, I fell into exhausted slumber.

On the fifth day we finally left the marshes behind us. I sighed with relief, when I noticed that the ground was rising again and the pools and stretches of reeds and rushes were growing smaller and finally diminishing into a line of straggling reeds at the edges of the trail. In the east a line of barren hills became now clearly visible in the distance. At the right of the hill range a lonely peak rose significantly higher than the others. It was almost conical in shape, but its summit was strangely flattened, and there seemed to be the remains of building on top of it. The sky behind it was dark and grey, creating an atmosphere of gloom around our destination. Weathertop. I swallowed hard. I had to tell Aragorn what I knew. But how? He had told me to remain silent about what I knew. But I could not, couldn't I? Not about what I thought was going to happen at the Weathertop!

The landscape we were passing through grew increasingly desolate and dry. Only a few birds gave melancholy trills, which echoed through the wilderness and sent shivers down my spine.

We made camp in the shelter of a group of gnarled alder-trees and set a watch for the night. Sam woke me at midnight for my turn. Groggily I got up and walked a few times around the camp, trying to walk as noiselessly and soft-footed as the hobbits. When I was sure that I had cast off any sleepiness, I returned to the fire and sat down, keeping my eyes to the darkness. I had read about keeping watch in some novels about American Indians. You don't look into the fire, but away from it into the darkness, or you won't notice anything creeping up on you. Even though I remained on my guard, looking off into the shadows to keep my night-sight, I was taken by surprise when Aragorn suddenly sat down next to me.

My heart was beating like a drum, and I felt the rush of adrenaline in my blood. Aragorn waited for me to calm down, and then he spoke in a low voice, which was barely audible. "You worry about something. You look at the Weathertop and you are frightened. What do you know about it?"

I swallowed nervously. I had to tell him, didn't I?

I continued to stare into the night. Finally I whispered, "In the tales I know, you are attacked by the black riders at Weathertop Hill. Frodo is wounded. He almost dies."

Aragorn sighed almost imperceptibly. "I do not think there is any way to escape the attack. I have feared an attack there for days now. I am afraid that those flashes of lightning we saw on top of that hill two days ago was Gandalf, caught in a fight. I only hope he managed to draw at least some of the enemies off our trail. Lothíriel, I am not one of the wise, or the powerful; I cannot tell you why you are here, or where you should go. But if you can find counsel at all, you will find it at Rivendell."

I felt choked, silly tears of relief pricking at the corners of my eyes; Aragorn sounded friendlier than ever before, except when he had told me he did not believe that I belonged to the enemy at the Prancing Pony.

As if he had read my thoughts, he continued in a soft voice. "I really don't believe that you belong to the enemy. But the knowledge you bear is a most dangerous weapon. You must take care with everything you say or do. Don't throw away anything that might hint at your origin ever again." He rose and moved off into the darkness, scouting around the campsite.

I remained where I was, blushing with shame. I had not stopped to think for a second before I had thrown away the empty bottle of midge repellent. How could I have been so stupid! I could not know who or what had been watching, and what clue a stupid, worthless plastic bottle might give to an enemy. How could I have been so stupid! After all, I knew from the stories just how easily long lost objects tended to be found in this world.

Once again I had messed it up. I could only hope that I – or the others – would not have to pay for my mistake later on.

**ooo**

During the next day we were noticeably getting closer to the hills. They rose in an undulating, ragged ridge, almost a thousand feet high, and the overgrown ruins of destroyed buildings now and again visible on their slopes and in narrow ravines leading away from the trail hinting at a dark history of these lands, a history of war and violence.

We made camp on the western slopes of the hills. Six days ago we had left Bree. In Middle Earth it was the fifth of October, but on earth it was the seventeenth of August.

The next day Aragorn led us to a clearly visible trail, which ran along the feet of the hills to the South. The path took advantage of every cover the wild landscape of boulders, dells, steep banks and thickets of thorn bushes offered. It reminded me of trenches of the First World War, which I had seen in the woods of Verdun in France. When Merry asked if there were any barrow-downs in the vicinity, Aragorn's explanation confirmed this impression.

He told us that in the days of the last alliance between elves and men a watch-tower had been built on the Weathertop and the trail we were on was one of many used to transport supplies to the forts of the hills and the tower itself. "It is told that Elendil stood there and watched for the coming of Gil-galad out of the West."

"Who was Gil-galad?" Merry asked in an innocent voice.

A slow, melodic voice answered him in three stanzas of beautiful verse.

I felt a shiver run down my spine, as I looked at the dark, forbidding line of the hills, hearing about the High King of the Elves and his dark fate in days long gone and almost forgotten.

Only when Aragorn admonished Pippin not to speak the name of Mordor out loud, I managed to rouse myself out of my revelry. I had often wondered about Gil-galad and his story, which was not really told in "The Lord of the Rings", and I had never accomplished finishing "The Silmarillion". Here, at the foot of the gloomy hills of the Weather Hills, the shadows of Middle-earth's heroic past seemed to reach out to me, making me imagine gleaming spears and bright elvish eyes in the sun light millennia ago.

**ooo**

In the afternoon we reached Weathertop itself. We chose a bowl-shaped, grassy dell as a camp-site. Aragorn, Frodo and Merry made for the top of the hill, whereas Sam and Pippin went in search of a spring and some dead wood for a fire. I was left behind with the gear and the pony.

Shortly Sam and Pippin came back chattering excitedly. Apparently they had found a spring and what they thought to be a camp-site of other travellers. I could not remember this event from the books. It had been simply too long ago, since I had read the books.

Aragorn and the others returned from the summit with worried faces. Aragorn had taken me aside and said in a low voice: "The enemy is here. Watch the hobbits while I take a look at the spring."

I nodded, swallowing hard. The hobbits sat huddled around the dell, while I crouched at its rim, staring out across the slopes of the hill. Watch the hobbits! And what should I do if the enemy came upon us now? Try to beat the riders with a stick of wood?

Although I had some skill with a blade from associating way too much with members of the various fraternities of Erlangen (many of them still kept the tradition of ritual fencing alive, and I had trained with one or the other of my student buddies for those mock duels), I had no sword and I had never in my entire life tried to inflict bodily harm on someone else. I was more than relieved, when Aragorn finally returned, although his news were not very uplifting. The hobbits had unwittingly destroyed any real traces at the spring. It was impossible to tell if the other travellers, who had stayed there had been rangers, Gandalf himself or enemies.

Although Sam objected, because the fire might alert any watchers, we followed Aragorn's advice and lit a fire in the most sheltered corner of the hollow. With something hot and filling in the stomach even this dreary day of waiting for night-fall and the enemy was improved somewhat. As dusk settled across the dreary land around us, the air grew cold. I shivered and slipped into my one warm woollen pullover and closed my leather jacket to the last button.

The grey slopes of the hills rapidly vanished into shadow. It was October here, and the night fell quickly and darkly. I sat huddled close to the fire in the company of the hobbits, who had wrapped themselves into their warmest clothes and still seemed cold. Aragorn, on the other hand, seemed to feel quite warm in his single green cloak. He had lit his prettily carved pipe again, his keen eyes surveying the darkening slopes of the hill around us, as he began to tell us some tales about the past ages of Middle Earth, to take our minds off the waiting and the fear.

When he told us the lay of Lúthien Tinúviel, his voice so very dark with an emotion none of the others could place, I felt tears flowing freely down my cheeks. I thought that I knew everything would turn out well for Aragorn and Arwen, but the happy end of this story was a long way off, and I was mortally afraid that it was not as certain as I wished it to be.

Aragorn noticed my tears when he had finished, and gave me wry, lopsided smile, acknowledging my compassion with a brief wink.

I looked away and noticed a pale light glowing at the summit of the Weathertop. Then a cloud was blown away above us, and the moon appeared above the hill. Merry and Sam rose, walking about a bit and stretching their arms and legs grown stiff from sitting on the ground unmoving for hours. I suddenly felt nervous, as if unseen eyes were observing me from just behind my back. I turned around trying to peer across the edge of the hollow, but I could not see anything. Aragorn was watching the moonlit expanses of the hills intently.

Was that a movement or only the wind in the coarse, high grass on the ridge? My heart started to race without any apparent reason. I felt my palms grow clammy with the sweat of fear. What was going on? Was the enemy closing in on us?

Just when I had finished that thought, Merry and Sam came running back to the fire, convinced that they had seen dark shapes moving towards our camp.  
My stomach did a nauseous flip, and I rose to my feet, weak-kneed with fright.

Aragorn kept calm. He thrust long branches into our hands. "When they attack, light those branches in the fire. Keep close to the fire, with your faces outward. And now hush!"

Silently we sat around the fire, the seconds moving with agonizing slowness. I swallowed dryly. The hobbits were so small, not any taller than children, and their only weapons were the knives they had acquired on the barrow-downs. And I had no weapon at all. My heart was beating frantically, adrenaline surging through my body, driving away all remnants of fatigue.

Suddenly a dark shadow rose above the rim of the dell, and I could not suppress a yell of fright. Four black shadows towered above us, darker than the darkest night. We jumped to our feet.

"Light the branches," I hissed at the hobbits and stuck my branch into the fire.

The hobbits obeyed. Aragorn drew his sword in a glittering flash of silver metal.

The shadows advanced, and the dark terror, which had kept me frozen to my seat back in Bree, was over me again, its horror increased four folded. I gritted my teeth to keep them from chattering and stepped next to Frodo. Merry and Pippin tried to get in front of Frodo, to shelter him with their bodies. But when the shadowy forms of the wraiths raised their black swords, the hobbits threw themselves flat on the ground screaming with terror. Aragorn leapt forward, in one hand the sword, in the other a flaming branch, but he managed to draw off only one of the black figures. The other three kept moving towards us.

I felt Frodo shaking next to me, and then he dropped his torch. The tallest of the dark figures seemed to reach out to Frodo. To my frightened gaze the gesture was executed almost in slow motion. Another step and he would have the ring, I thought. I screamed at the wraith, German curses echoing through the night. The wraith kept coming. I took aim with my flaming branch and threw myself right at the wraith with all the strength I had. He must have felt my jump long before I moved. He aimed an easy kick at me and hit me right at the temple with his steel capped boot.

I did not even notice how I hit the ground.


	8. An Elvish Jewel

**8. An Elvish Jewel**

My head hurt abominably. I was sleeping, and my head hurt. That could not be right.  
A wave of nausea rose from my stomach. I opened my eyes, tried to sit up and vomited promptly, barely managing to turn my head to the side.

Minutes, hours or weeks of darkness later, a soft, damp cloth was gently placed around my head. The pungent fragrance of herbs tickled my nose. I sneezed and thought my head would explode. The cool cloth was adjusted around my forehead. Within minutes my head stopped hurting, the excruciating pain fading to a dull ache.

"Lothíriel?" a dark voice asked. A voice I knew. Aragorn. That was Aragorn's voice.  
"Lothíriel? Can you hear me?"

"Hmm," I answered, and groggily opened my eyes. A figure was leaning across my field of vision, but the outlines of the figure were blurred, so that I could not recognize who it was at first. I blinked several times, trying to clear my eyes. Slowly my vision returned to normal.

Aragorn was looking down at me, a worried expression on his face. "Do you know your name?" he asked.

I blinked again. "Sure I do." I winced. Talking hurt my head. What had happened? "It's Lothíriel. Because of my mother. They would not allow it at first. But the court finally said that it was alright. So I am Lothíriel. And do you know what's funny? I don't even know why my mother insisted on me being Lothíriel." I was babbling. I knew that. But I had remembered a black figure looming above me. Black riders. I did not want to know what had happened.

Aragorn frowned at me. Then he held three fingers in front of my eyes. "How many fingers do you see?"

"Three." I don't want to know what happened. I want to forget lightless looming figures. Blacker than the darkest night, colder than death, creeping up the mountain side armed with black weapons.

"Do you remember what happened?" Aragorn asked, his features relaxing a bit.

I shuddered. "The black riders. The wraiths. Five, I think. They attacked. Merry and Pippin fell to the ground. You fought one or two. But the others kept coming." My voice trembled. I sounded like a little girl who was close to tears after a nightmare. "They wanted to get Frodo. I threw myself at one of them. Everything went black. I guess I am not a very good warrior."  
I hesitated, and then forced myself to ask: "How is Frodo? Is he alive? What happened after I blacked out?"

Aragorn sighed. "Frodo is injured, just as you predicted. But he may live. You set the cloak of the rider you tackled on fire. He fled. I managed to drive off the others."

Frodo. He may live. He had lived in the stories back home. Then he had to survive here, too, hadn't he?

Soothed by the wet cloth on my forehead, the throbbing in my head diminished even as I was talking to Aragorn. "What's with my head?" I asked.

Aragorn looked at me with an expression between reproach and amusement. "Payment for your foolish attack. The black rider landed a kick at your head. You were very lucky. The kick could have killed you easily. As it is, you have suffered a concussion, but the athelas will help. I think you will be fit enough to travel tomorrow. You should sleep now." With that the ranger rose to his feet and turned away.

"Thank you," I called after him, my voice still thin and shaking to my embarrassment.  
Aragorn looked back at me, and there was a spark of real warmth in his keen grey eyes. "You're welcome. You are a brave girl. Foolish, but brave."

**ooo**

I woke again when the sun had already fully risen. My head still ached slightly and my eyelids were swollen, but I did not feel sick. I sat up carefully and looked around. Frodo lay close to the fire wrapped in thick blankets. His eyes were closed and he was ghastly pale.  
He looked as if he was only barely alive. Sam sat next to him on the ground his dark eyes huge and frightened in his round face, which held none of his usual cheerfulness.

Merry and Pippin were busy repacking the baggage. Aragorn was getting the pony ready to carry Frodo, tying the bed rolls to the front and to the back of the saddle to give Frodo additional security in his weak condition. I scrambled out of my sleeping bag. As I got up, a wave of dizziness made me swallow hard. Concussion in the wilderness. I should probably stay in bed for a couple of days. But that was obviously not an option and so I hurriedly got my stuff together.

Then I walked over to Merry and Pippin. "Hi," I said, trying to sound cheerful. "Can I help you? I can carry some additional weight, too. My backpack is pretty big."

Pippin turned to me, pushing back the stubborn cowlick, which was always falling in his eyes, and smiled at me. "How are you, Lothíriel? You had us quite worried! And we have more than enough of that at the moment." The mirth, which was usually sparkling in Pippin's green eyes, was subdued by worry. He cast an uneasy glance at the still figure of Frodo on the ground by the fire.

I swallowed nervously. "He will make it, Pippin. I am sure he will make it. Frodo's tough."  
I hope. I really hope. He should be. Up until now everything has turned out just like in the book. Why should that change now?

Pippin nodded. But his eyes remained dark and his face was tense with worry.

"Now," I said briskly, hoping that something to do would keep me from worrying. "What can I put into my pack to help you carry all that stuff?"

Merry looked up, a fleeting grin lighting his pale and frightened face at my choice of words. He looked even paler than Pippin, probably because his almost black hair and very dark eyes contrasted more sharply with the pallor of his cheeks. "Strider said that you mustn't. You were injured, too, after all."

"But I am o.k.," I objected. "Right as rain!"

Aragorn walked over to us, leading the pony by its reins. He raised his eyebrows. "Right as rain?"

Obviously he was not familiar with that expression. For a moment I wondered what the others were thinking about my way of speaking – or about my backpack and my sleeping bag for that matter.

Aragorn reached for my head and lightly touched my temple. Even this soft touch felt like a knife ripping through my skull. I winced, pulling back from his touch, only to wince again, as the movement hurt my head again.

"I see," Aragorn said dryly. "I have made a tisane of athelas for Frodo. You should drink a mug, too. We have to walk far today. The riders may return here tonight. We have to be far from this place by nightfall."

The tisane did help. Although it did not really taste pleasantly, it was rather spicy and we did not have any honey or sugar to sweeten it, it relieved my headache and the dizziness passed away. Aragorn had decided to cut straight to the East, keeping off the road for safety reasons.

But we had to cross the road to get away from the Weather Hills.

Aragorn had run ahead a few yards and kept look-out for the enemy. When we approached the road, there was no sign of black riders or any other living creature. Immeasurably relieved I let go of the breath I had been involuntarily holding and hurried across the road, following Merry and Pippin. Just as I stepped off the road and hurried towards the thicket where the others were already hiding, a cold cry echoed across the plains. Seconds later an answering cry sounded from far away among the hills. It was a shrill, piercing scream, full of cruelty and hatred. I stumbled into the thicket, trembling all over the body, the cries reverberating painfully in my head.

Merry and Pippin looked at me, their eyes just as wide and frightened. I gulped and looked back at them, trying to keep my fear under control. It did not work; I guess I looked just as scared as they did. Merry gave me a wavering smile and Pippin squeezed my hand.  
Then we turned and followed Aragorn and Sam, who was leading the pony with Frodo, who was perched precariously between the sleeping bags.

'Tis an ill wind indeed that blows no good at all, I quoted Shakespeare under my breath.  
My head had started to throb again, and the pain increased with every step. On the one hand, my brain had been almost bashed to mush and running through the wilderness pursued by ring wraiths was probably not a good way to treat a concussion. On the other hand, Aragorn and the others seemed finally inclined to trust me.

The landscape, we were walking through, was wild and desolate, and it did not offer much shelter from unfriendly eyes. Only here and there patches of bushes and gnarled trees grew in this barren country. There was no real trail we could follow, and each step jarred my aching head abysmally.

Our progress was slow, and all of us were down-hearted and frightened. Even Aragorn looked strained and tired. Finally we made camp. We lit a large fire, because Frodo had to be kept warm and to ward off the enemy. Frodo had not spoken all day. I did not feel very well, either. To be honest, I felt sick to my stomach and my head pounded painfully in the rhythm of my heartbeat.

Aragorn brewed up another kettle of tisane of athelas. He bathed Frodo's wound and made him drink a cup of the tisane. Then he made me drink a cup of the athelas-tea, too, and afterwards he had me lie down with an athelas drenched cloth wrapped around my head. After a while the sick feeling in my stomach quieted down, and the pain in my head was again reduced to a minor ache.

But I could not bring myself to eat anything. And I offered not even a token protest against my exclusion of the nightly watches. I fell asleep at once, but I slept fitfully, disturbed by evil dreams of dark, dark shapes looming above me.

**ooo**

In the morning my head hurt again, and if Aragorn had not saved another cup of the tisane for me, I would have been in no condition to walk. But I must have looked pretty wrung out, because Aragorn examined my head and my eyes again, making me look to the right and to the left and up and down, following the movement of my eyes with his sharp gaze. Then he had me do some strange exercises with my hands, while I had my eyes closed.  
"I don't think your brain was damaged," he announced finally. "If you could stay in bed for two days, you would be… what did you say yesterday? 'Right as rain.' But I don't think it is dangerous for you to keep walking. At least not any more dangerous than the enemy we are fleeing."

"Relief, relief," I joked and was rewarded with a slight smile.

In the evening my head felt as bad as the day before.  
Without athelas I would not have been able to sleep.  
Without athelas I would not have been able to walk the next morning.  
I wondered if athelas was a habit-forming drug.

In the evening, when my head was hurting as if it was splitting apart, I did not care if athelas was a drug or not. The fourth day was slightly better. And in the morning of the fifth day I did not need any athelas-tea anymore.

The fifth day took us from the plains of the lone-lands up into the hills above the Mitheithel.  
On the sixth day we reached the ridge of those hills. For once the weather was clear, and we could see quite far. The road swept around the feet of the hills, a lonely brown ribbon in the pale green of the plains. The road was empty. No other travellers and no enemies were visible on it. To the right the grey currents of the Mitheithel gleamed in the pale sunshine, and in a valley far to the East I thought I could make out another river, but it was almost obscured by swirls of mist. Aragorn's announcement that we would have to turn back to the road to cross the Mitheithel was greeted with no enthusiasm. But as there was no way to get across the river below the Ettenmoors apart from the Last Bridge, we had no choice.

"We simply have to hope that we do not find the Last Bridge held against us," Aragorn concluded.

I had finally been allowed to keep watch like the others. Aragorn had not wanted me to. And the hobbits – even Pippin – obviously did not think it really appropriate for a woman to keep watch at all, but I had insisted. I had the first watch that night. Aragorn kept me company, smoking his pipe, his eyes dark with worry. I kept thinking about the next morning and the danger of crossing the bridge. I wanted to help the companions. And I resented to be treated like an invalid or a fragile girl.

"I could explore the bridge," I said suddenly.

Aragorn turned his head. He withdrew the pipe from his lips and I could see that he was getting ready to object. "No, don't object. If the enemy is there, they will kill me swiftly, eager as they are to get Frodo. So I'd just be dead and not a danger for anyone anymore. And you could still get the hobbits away. Hopefully."

I looked back at the ranger. My voice had trembled only slightly. If I was sure that the story would keep to the outline I knew from my world, I would never have offered to make a fool out of me again. But I just wasn't sure, and it was driving me crazy. All day I was thinking about more and more dreadful deviations from the story I had read so often. I cursed my vivid imagination.

Aragorn turned the pipe around in his long, strong fingers. The nail of the index finger of his right hand was blue and black from connecting with one of the black swords of the enemies.  
He did not object but looked at me thoughtfully. "You don't keep back, do you?" He asked finally. "Are all women like that, where you come from? Outspoken and running straight into danger without looking either left or right?"

I blinked at him completely taken by surprise. "I guess women are just as different in my world as they are here. But women have the same rights as men in my world. They can say what they want and do what they want, as long as they don't violate any laws, just the same as the men." I explained. "But it's a complex phenomenon. Maybe I'll live to explain it to you in detail one day when we have a lot of time." I winked at him. "I am sure Arwen would be interested, too."

He started at the name. I blushed. "I am sorry; I did not want to be disrespectful." Aragorn shook his head. "No, I don't mind; you just caught me unawares. I am just not used to anyone knowing about Arwen, and talking… like that." He exhaled a cloud of grey pipe-smoke. "You said that Frodo gets to Rivendell safely from what you know. Why would you risk your life if you know it is unnecessary?"

I gulped. "I am just worried sick that something will go wrong that… real life will not keep to the story line. It's what you said in Bree. I am not in the story that I know. The story is already different. What if…"

"What if the cow jumps over the moon," Aragorn interrupted me. "We will just have to hope that everything turns out all right, no matter what you know." He sighed. "Thank you for your offer. I think it is a good idea. If this 'story' you know has not changed, then you are not in any danger. If there is danger, you may be enough of a distraction to allow the hobbits to flee."

"And you," I added, although my voice was less than firm.

"And me," Aragorn acknowledged grudgingly.

Although I might very well have sealed my fate with volunteering for scouting detail, I slept well that night. For the first time no bad dreams haunted my sleep since the incident at Weathertop.

The others took cover behind a thicket just at the side of the road, and Aragorn went off along the road to the West to check if danger was close behind us. I strained my eyes in an effort to observe his movements. Finally he stepped noiselessly out of a thicket just behind us. I had not heard him coming or seen him at all. I sighed. I was definitely not a ranger.

But he nodded to me, and so I slipped out onto the road. My heart was thundering and my knees felt wobbly. I looked up and down the road as Aragorn had told me to. Was that a moving shadow, three yards down the road? Had I mixed up the events at the bridge in my memory? No, it was only a branch of a fir tree moving in the wind. Cautiously, alert to any sound and any movement on the road and at its sides, I walked towards the bridge.

Nothing.

There was only the sound of the river rushing against the pillars of the bridge and the soft sigh of wind in the bushes and the trees.  
I breathed easier and walked to the centre of the bridge.

Nothing.

As far as I could see the road was peaceful and empty on either side of the bridge.

I exhaled in a heavy sigh.

This very moment the dark grey clouds, which had kept the sun hidden all morning, parted.  
A warm, golden ray of sunlight hit my face and the bridge. Close to my right foot something sparkled in the unexpected sunshine. At first I thought it was the shard of a bottle because it shimmered greenly in the pale light of the October sun. But then I noticed that the edges were too evenly cut for a piece of broken glass. I knelt down in the dust and had to bite my lips to prevent an astonished cry.

It was a pale green jewel!

And it did not look as if it had fallen down on the bridge by chance. It looked as if it had been placed here as a sign. Carefully I picked it up and ran back to the thicket, where the hobbits and Aragorn were waiting.

"There's no one in sight, neither friend nor enemy," I gasped. "Nothing moves out there but the river and the wind. But look what I found! It was placed right in the middle of the bridge almost like a sign, or a talisman."

Aragorn took the pale green jewel from my hand and held it against the light of the sun. Green light flowed across his face. "This is an elf-stone, a beryl. The enemy won't touch it. I think you are right, Lothíriel. It is a sign. We may pass the bridge. But we should hurry nevertheless, and we will leave the road again as soon as we have crossed the Mitheithel. With no clearer sign than this I do not dare to stay on the road," Aragorn told us and placed the jewel back on my outstretched palm.

"But, don't you want to keep it?" I asked, astonished. He looked at me and a fleeting smile turned his grim and weather-hardened features into the bright and clear face of a young lord. "No. You found it. You can keep it. You have a long way ahead of you if I am not very much mistaken. You will need a token of hope before the end."  
A shiver ran down my spine at Aragorn's ominous words. A goose on my grave. But I took the jewel and slipped it into the small money pocket of my jeans.

We made it safely across the bridge. We stayed on the road for another mile, and then Aragorn led us up a dark ravine into steep hills covered with tall, shadowy trees on the left of the road. Although we were happy to leave the exposed stretch of the road, this gloomy and desolate country did not exactly lighten our moods.

Frodo sat hunched and shivering on the pony, his eyes slightly glazed. I walked up to him and took his hand, much as he had taken my hand that first evening in Bree. "You will make it, Frodo," I whispered encouragingly. "Don't worry, once we are in Rivendell, Elrond will heal you in the blink of an eye."

Frodo tried to smile at me, but it was more a painful grimace than a smile. Oh, God, I thought. Please. You can't let him die. It's not in the book. You can't let him die!

**ooo**

As we were walking on into the hills, Aragorn told us about the country around us. How its people fell under the sway of the witch-king of Angmar, long ago, and how the country was laid waste in the war which finally brought the end of the North kingdom.  
"Where did you learn such tales?" Pippin marvelled. "Birds and beasts don't tell such tales!"

"The heirs of Elendil still remember the past," Aragorn replied, "and in Rivendell the memory of ages long gone is still alive."

"Do you know Rivendell well?" Frodo asked, his voice weak and tired.

"I have," Aragorn answered, but he did not look at us; his gaze was set on distant memories, and his eyes were dark. "I grew up in Rivendell. I still return there when I may. There my heart is when dark days take me far away."

The look on his face touched something deep inside of me. Arwen, I thought. She is at Rivendell. I sighed. I had never known even a pale shadow of a love such as this.

The path we were following took us into a narrow valley. It felt like a trap to me, the shadows of the rocky hills all around us. And the gnarled pines searching, clinging to precarious toe-holds among the cracks and crevices of the cliffs reminded me of the twisted and misshapen shapes of trolls I had once seen in a children's book. As the country grew even steeper, the path finally vanished, and we had to search for a passage among the rocks and the trees on our own. Although I could see that the hobbits were weary to their bones, they plodded along wordlessly. And with their small size and their nimble feet they had definitely an advantage against me in this wilderness of thorns and rocks. Even with my good trekking shoes I was constantly slipping and stumbling, and lower branches hit my face whenever I forgot to duck or bend them out of the way. Aragorn, as a ranger, took this dismal country in his stride, sometimes walking at the front, sometimes at the rear of our group, constantly alert for any sound, any sign of danger. He seemed to need no sleep at all.  
My admiration for him grew by the minute.

In the middle of the afternoon it began to rain. We were soaked to the skin by nightfall. I discovered that the good thing about being tired beyond bounds is that you don't care if you are wet or the enemy is just behind you. If you are exhausted enough, you are simply beyond caring. Unfortunately, this condition was gone by the morning. We were still weary, but we had slept a few hours. We were still wet. And we had almost nothing left to eat.  
A cheerful start into a cheerful day.

Frodo was worse than ever. The cold and the damp made his wound hurt more intensely than ever before, and he was so pale as to be almost translucent. He seemed to be truly slipping away from this reality. I still hoped that I was right and that we would reach Rivendell in time, that Frodo would be alright, but when he looked at me and did not see me but stared right through me with this strange, glassy look, a shiver ran down my back, and I was frightened.  
**  
**

** ooo**

When Merry woke me before sunrise the next morning, I experienced the sudden urge to scream at him that I wasn't going to take another damn step. That was, of course, not an option. For one thing, we were in the middle of nowhere. There was no shelter and there was no food. An even more convincing argument was the possible proximity of black riders.  
Merry gave me a lopsided grin. "I feel just the same, Lothy. I know I should be scared stiff, and I am most of the time, but tonight, when Strider woke me to take over the watch, I wanted to throw some of this sludge into his face."  
"Gods, yes…" I agreed. We had slept on a moss-grown ledge. We had missed that the moss had soaked up the rain from above and the sludge from below. It had been soft to lie on. But what a mess!

The beginning of a wonderful day… just kidding. It was even worse than the day before.  
There was nothing even vaguely resembling a trail all around. Frodo had to dismount. I tried to carry him for a while, but he was too big and heavy for that. Hobbits are not as small as you might think, and they are a good deal heavier. Merry and Pippin had to support Frodo on our climb down to the Southeast between two steep hills because Sam had to take care of Bill, the pony. The slope was almost too steep to be managed on four hooves, and Bill was frightened. I did not blame him. I had been walking in front of Sam when I had lost my footing and slid down the slimy, rocky passage on my bottom. I was down before the rest of the company, but my jeans was torn and completely soaked with brown mud, and I was hurting all over. At least my stunt was good for a laugh.  
Our laughter did not last long, however, because once we were down the hill, another, even steeper slope rose in front of us. This time we had to go up. Mud and bruises notwithstanding, going down the hill had been more fun. We reached the ridge by nightfall.

Aragorn managed to light a fire in the shelter of a huge old pine tree, which almost bent double from the harsh winds sweeping over the hill. We huddled around the fire as close together as possible. There was no way to dry our things. It was a miracle that we had not already succumbed to pneumonia, one and all. Well, perhaps not so very miraculous; any self-respecting virus or bacteria would have run for cover at the first scent it got off us.  
Yep. We stank. The pony smelled like a wet and dirty pony. The hobbits smelled, well, like wet and dirty hobbits. I positively stank of mud and sweat. I did not sit close enough to Aragorn to discern how a wet and dirty ranger smelled.

The wind was moaning around the hill-tops in keening, fell voices, a sound which raised all the tiny hairs at the back of my neck and prevented any thought of sleep, no matter how exhausted I was. Wind or wolves, wind or wolves… I shivered uncontrollably. Both and even more evil alternatives were possible explanations of the nightly sounds we heard.  
The morning, however, dawned in clear bright colours. The storm winds of the night had blown away the menacing rain clouds, and the morning sky was a limpid, soft blue.  
I watched the sun rise in a red and golden glory, greeted by the cheerful warble of some small birds in the thickets around us. I felt dazed from the cold and the lack of sleep, but the beauty of this morning touched my heart like a blessing of God above… if He could still see me here in Middle Earth.

**ooo**

This day we had to finally turn back to the road because there was only the one ford to cross the Bruinen on the way to Rivendell. Although all of us were afraid of whatever waited for us at the ford, our spirits rose considerably as the day remained fairly sunny and warm. Bill, the scrawny pony, had by now developed an uncanny sense for safe passages through rocks and sludge. I was walking close behind the pony this day, and had much less difficulties on the trail than during the last days. I sighed. A ranger out of Erlangen… I was more of a garden gnome than a ranger. I knew that now.

"A troll hole!" Pippin shouted and disappeared promptly into a cave. "Pippin, wait!" Aragorn shouted after the hobbit, but the youngster was already gone. I thought that my heart would stop this very second. I was not only a disaster as a ranger; I was also not up to the resilience of the hobbits.

It turned out to be a troll hole although it had obviously been deserted long ago. I tried to remember if I had ever read anything about trolls in "The Lord of the Rings", but nothing came to mind. Perhaps in "The Hobbit"? But I had read that book only once, years ago, and the only thing I recalled was something about dwarves and spiders in a dark wood.  
A frightened exclamation interrupted my musings. "Trolls, trolls!" Pippin was panting. "There are three trolls just down there!" His face was white as a sheet with a greenish tinge to his pointy ears. Aragorn, however, remained as calm as you please. He just walked forward, straight into the direction of the trolls.  
"But there are trolls!" Pippin shouted after the ranger, his voice anguished. And there were three huge gnarled bodies looming in the clearing, they looked almost like granite boulders, tumbled down from the mountainsides. Aragorn, I thought. Don't. Don't go there! I opened my mouth to shout a warning, but no sound came out.

Aragorn entered the clearing unconcernedly. He picked up a branch and broke the stick across the back of one of the trolls. Then he turned to us, laughing merrily. "Get up old stone!" he cried, and threw the piece of wood which remained in his hand at the head of the troll statue. "You won't trip me up that easily, Master Peregrin Took."  
Pippin looked absolutely flabbergasted. It was not so much that he would not try to play a prank on Aragorn if the time was right, but the young hobbit had been well and truly frightened by the sight of the trolls.

Frodo's bright laughter made all our heads turn. He had roused himself out of his feverish stupor. He explained quickly, why he had laughed. Those were the trolls Bilbo and the dwarves had met, years ago. He was delighted that I was unfamiliar with the story and told it with gusto. In the end, all of us were laughing, and even Aragorn was chuckling.  
When Merry demanded a song, it was – to my surprise – Sam who obliged with a witty, funny pub song about a troll and his collection of bones. I was even more surprised when Sam admitted that he had made up the song himself. That goes to show, I thought. You just never know what's inside of people.

**ooo**

We reached the road in the evening. To our immense relief, there was no sign of any other travellers or the enemy. A cold wind was blowing down from the mist-covered mountains before us, tasting of wilderness and snow. We had more stumbled than walked for another mile on the road when the sound of approaching hooves made us jump. We raced off the road and scrambled behind a thicket of bilberry and hazel-bushes.

My heart was in my mouth, and I felt sick with dread. We were so close to our destination, so close! And now this!

But the shadows did not grow darker around us; if anything, I thought that the failing light of the pale sun lit up again. Was that the sound of tiny bells in the air?  
"That doesn't sound like a Black Rider," Frodo wheezed next to me. "But who could it be?" I whispered.

Aragorn did not answer but seemed to listen intently. Then he suddenly ran forward to the road. At the same moment I saw a white horse drawing near. It was running swiftly, and indeed, to its reins tiny silver bells were attached to ward off evil. The rider was tall and slender; his long golden hair was flowing in the wind along with a silvery cloak, which billowed behind him like a sail. When he beheld Aragorn, he stopped and dismounted in one fluid movement. He embraced the ranger and cried: "Ai na vedui Dúnadan! Mae govannen!"

I recognized the words although they were spoken even faster than I had heard them in my own world, and the pronunciation was even more liquid. But even though, there was no doubt in my mind at all.

An elf had come.

An elf of Rivendell had found us!  
Frodo would be safe after all!

Aragorn took the elf to our hide-away. "This is Glorfindel, a lord of the Eldar, who dwells in the house of Elrond." Glorfindel greeted us courteously. The touch of his slender, cool fingers left a strange tingling sensation on my hand.

After Glorfindel had explained quickly how Elrond had sent him to look for us, he turned to Frodo, who had slowly slid down to the ground while we others had been talking and greeting the Elf-lord. Glorfindel examined his wound, and some of the joyous beauty of his face faded when he finally turned to us, his expression grave. "This is an evil wound, and little can I do here in the wilderness… but I will do what I may to help Frodo."

In our world, what Glorfindel did would have been called quackery and rubbish. He touched the wound with his long white hands, closed his eyes and sang a soft song. Afterwards, the eyes of the elf were full of pain, but Frodo felt better and could ride again even on the high back of Glorfindel's horse. It almost looked as if Glorfindel had taken some of the pain into himself to ease Frodo's suffering.

With Frodo on Glorfindel's horse, we could load the pony with our baggage and unerringly led by Glorfindel, we made off into the night. But it was difficult to keep a sense of the passing time, walking through the mists of night, especially as we were already half-dazed by exhaustion. Sometime I noticed that I was walking next to Glorfindel and that the elf was watching me.

"Aragorn did not tell me your name," the elf said softly.

"I'm Lothíriel," I answered simply. And for the first time in my life my name did not feel strange and awkward to me.

"Your eyes are full of strange tales," Glorfindel commented. "You come from far away, from beyond the circles of this world."

I was too tired to get excited about this casual observation. I answered the first thing that came to my mind. "Germany. I come from a country called Germany."

"But it's not your home," Glorfindel added casually.

Now I did turn my head to the gleaming face of the elf. If I had not been so damn tired, I think I would have dissolved into a puddle just from glimpsing this profile of serenity and beauty.  
"No," I said. "I don't think it ever was. But I have no idea where else I could belong."

The elf smiled at me, a bittersweet smile of memories I could not even begin to fathom.  
"You will find your home. I cannot tell you where, but that much I can see easily. There's a saying among the elves who have been to Aman, the Blessed, our home: 'The most magical journey is the one that takes you home'."

He fell silent, and I was too tired and far too intimidated to reply anything.


	9. The River of Rivendell

**9. The River of Rivendell**

I was dizzy with weariness, stumbling along in a world hazy from lack of sleep.  
Finally Glorfindel allowed us a short rest of about five hours.  
I slumped to the ground where I stood, but I could not sleep. I was dozing; my eyes closed, my breathing slowing down, but in my mind I kept walking, walking, walking, my ears were echoing with the sounds of light, fast steps on the rocky surface of the road.  
When Aragorn touched my shoulder to wake me, it was a painful effort to open my eyes.  
After a short meal of stale bread, dried fruit and Glorfindel's elvish liquor, we set out again.

The feeling of strength and vigour all of us had felt at the draught of elvish liquor lasted for approximately three miles. Then it was gone and every step was agony. I trudged wearily behind Pippin and Merry and wondered where ever they got the energy to keep whispering and chuckling in spite of weariness and dread. Frodo's face was grey with pain. He was quiet and withdrawn, and only nodded or shook his head when Aragorn or Glorfindel inquired how he felt.

The rocky road was steadily sloping down to the river of Rivendell, the Bruinen. To the relief of the hobbits there were now wide stretches of soft grass and moss at the sides of the road, which was a relief for their shoeless feet. The sun was shining today, and for October it was positively hot. I was sweating and felling itchy all over before noon. I had removed three bloated ticks from my legs at our last break. Did the ticks of Middle-earth transmit meningitis like the ticks of southern Germany and Austria? I was acutely aware that my vaccination was overdue. And those bites bloody hurt!

It was already late in the afternoon, when we reached the shadows of a forest of tall pine-trees. I welcomed getting out of the sun. The air smelt spicy from the needles and the resin of the pines and the damp earth. Suddenly the road plunged into a narrow gorge of incredibly red rocks. I would have loved to stop and have a closer look at the beautiful colouring of the rock, but Aragorn and Glorfindel hurried us along, now and again throwing uneasy glances back across their shoulders. When I noticed their uneasiness, a low feeling of dread crept up from my stomach, making my heart speed up. It could not be far to the river. And at the river the enemy would meet us.

We hastened down the steep slope of the ravine, our footfalls echoing from the moist rock faces around us, creating the impression that there were noises all around us, dark and heavy feet following us, black booted feet preceding us…

I felt light-headed with the rush of adrenaline and exhaustion. Suddenly the gorge opened into the sunlight. The road ran down another slope, and on across a short stretch of level country for perhaps another mile. Beyond that I glimpsed the white crests of a river with strong and rushing currents. The Bruinen!

I wanted to exhale with relief, when Glorfindel gave an anguished scream.

"Fly!" He shouted at Frodo, who was at the head of our group. "Fly! The enemy is upon us!"

I turned around. At the highest point of the incline leading down through the ravine, a black horse had appeared, with a lightless looming figure on its back. A ring wraith! He had drawn a black sword, and was already spurring on his horse to race down towards us. Frodo had turned around, too, and sat transfixed; paralyzed with fear and fever, he only stared at the enemy rushing towards us, and made no move to flee.

I opened my mouth to scream at him to run, but a shaking terror came over me, and I could not make any sound at all. Aragorn's face was pale and strained, and although he could move his lips, he could utter only a whisper.

But Glorfindel was not as easily silenced. His voice was clear and powerful, as he shouted again: "Ride forward! RIDE!" When he realized that Frodo was not capable of any action, he turned his blazing blue eyes to his horse. "Run, run, Asfaloth! Noro lim, noro lim, Asfaloth!"

The horse turned on the spot and raced away in a streak of white lightning. The white destrier was so fast he seemed to be flying. But just as the stallion sped away, black horses thundered down the hill, in hot pursuit of the white horse, and the air was filled with mind-shattering cries of the Black Riders.

Apart from Glorfindel the passing power of the Riders had thrown us to the ground like a hurricane, or an earthquake. I had no recollection how I came to be lying on the ground, but when I propped myself up, feeling bruised all over, I saw eight Riders closing in on Glorfindel's white stallion.

Aragorn was the first to get back on his feet, I clumsily followed suit.

"Help the hobbits," Aragorn called out to me. He picked up Sam with one hand and secured the reins of the rearing pony with the other.

I did as I was told, trying to get Merry up to his feet with my left, dragging at Pippin's arm with my right. Aragorn was already running after Glorfindel, who was racing down the slope to the Bruinen. The elf carried a great sword in his right, which blazed in a deadly silver light. The three of us slipped and stumbled down the hill, dragging each other on in our effort to reach the ford and help to fight the enemy.

When we reached the ford, Frodo was already on the other side, slumped across the back of the horse. Asfaloth was obviously spent and could not run any farther. His sides were flecked wetly with foam, but he neighed a feral challenge at the eight black horses making their way across the river.

Aragorn had a fire going within seconds and handed each of us a flaming branch.  
"We must not let them out of the river!" He drew the shining length of his sword and took up a flaming pine-branch with the other. Glorfindel helped himself to another branch.

Keeping the hobbits and me between them, Aragorn and Glorfindel spread out along the edge of the river. Both Aragorn and Glorfindel were shouting elvish words at the top of their lungs, and the black horses suddenly tossed their heads nervously.

I could see how Frodo managed to sit up and draw his small sword. His hand was shaking with the effort, and the foremost Black Rider gave an ugly laugh at this feeble attempt of resistance.

The sky had suddenly darkened, and an icy wind was blowing Frodo's voice across the ford. "By Elbereth and Lúthien the Fair, you shall have neither the ring nor me!"

The Rider, which was almost across the ford lifted his arm at that and spoke a single, evil word. Frodo's sword burst into pieces, and he slumped across Asfaloth's neck in a faint.  
At that moment a roaring and rushing sound rose all around us from the rocks and the river.  
Suddenly the low icy waters of the river rose in huge and deadly white waves, rolling towards the Black Riders from up and down the river. Between the foamy white crests of the breakers flames of white fire burned and I thought I could see great white riders with grim faces and drawn swords in the water, racing for the enemies.

The black horses screamed with terror and bolted, rearing. They threw off their black riders.  
Within moments the great white flood had swallowed black horses and black riders.  
The flight to the ford was over.

Only moments after Frodo had collapsed a group of elvish warrior had appeared on the other side of the river and carried Frodo away on a stretcher.

But we had to wait two hours for the river to calm down enough to cross it without danger; the water was icy and chilled me to the bones. We hurried across the river, which looked to be calm mountain stream again. But I was more than happy to get away from it, having witnessed its awesome and destructive powers.

On the other side of the river five elvish guards had waited for us. They wore grey and green uniforms, swords, daggers and long, slender bows. Their captain, Glorfindel and Aragorn took the lead, talking quietly in Sindarin. Now and again I actually understood a word, but not enough to make any sense. However I caught my name, the word "thurin", which means mystery, or secret, and ù-choth, which means "no enemy".

It was a walk of another two or three hours to get down into the valley. By the time we finally reached the bright elvish palaces of Imladris I was asleep on my feet. We were taken directly to some guest rooms at ground level to the south-east of the main buildings. I barely registered that while the three hobbits had to share a room, I had the room to myself.  
I only had eyes for the bed. A real bed. A mattress, cushions, thick covers!  
I stripped naked and climbed into the bed.  
I fell asleep instantly, and it was a miraculous deep and peaceful slumber.

**ooo**

I cannot say when I started dreaming. But I must have slept several hours before the dreams began. I dreamed of home. I was back in my home, reading. At first I was looking at myself from above, seeing me as if I was a figure in a movie, a girl lost in the adventure of some fairy tale or other, sitting cross-legged on the floor, completely oblivious to the world around her. 

Then I was suddenly inside of my younger self, and reading. It was, not very surprising, "The Lord of the Rings", the first chapter of the second book. Curiously another voice than my own seemed to read the lines to me aloud, the rough, deep voice of an old man.  
"…there was some fragment of the blade still in the closed wound. But it could not be found…it was moving inwards..."

I came awake instantly, panting with shock as if I had had a horrible nightmare.  
Looking around the room I experienced a moment of complete, dizzying disorientation. Then I remembered where I was. Middle Earth. Rivendell.  
Rivendell?  
Why had I woken?  
We were safe. I could sleep myself out.  
Suddenly my mind started working again. The dream! The blade! What if they did not know about the blade?

I drew a shaky breath. It's in the stories. Everything turned out the way you remembered it up until now. Everything will be alright. You can't just run up to a Lord of the Elves and ask him, if he had considered that a bit of the blade might be left in the wound.

You can't. It's not your place.  
But what about the dream? What if…

**ooo**

I was out of the bed and searching for my not quite as dirty pair of jeans before the obnoxious little voice at the back of my mind could come up with another "what if".  
I ran out of my room and smack into an elvish guard. 

I was greeted with a flurry of Sindarin, which I did not understand at all.

"I need to talk to someone about Frodo!" I told the elf. "There might be a piece of the blade left in the wound."  
The elf replied something unintelligible in Sindarin.  
I stared at him, and shook my head. "Eh, man (what)? Ù-bedin Sindarin (I don't speak Sindarin)." But I own – owned – a very good dictionary and grammar of Sindarin and Quenya; I added in my mind. Unfortunately the book is on my desk in Erlangen and not in my backpack…

"Look, take me to someone who speaks my language, it's urgent! I need to make a fool of myself!" The elf did not react. "Look, you dolt, just take me to someone who can understand me!" An undertone of desperation was slipping into my voice.

Looking slightly aggravated, the elf nodded and motioned to me to follow him.  
I was led through a maze of corridors of pale white stones, which looked like marble and were lit by many white candles. The walls were hung with ornate tapestries, and there was a scent like incense floating in the air. Finally we stopped at a door made of beautifully grained pale wood. The guard knocked. An Elvish voice answered. The guard opened the door and gave me a slight shove into the room.

**ooo**

It was a large room with a vaulted ceiling and large glass windows. There was an arrangement of a couch and two easy chairs in front of a fire place and a huge desk in front of one of the windows. The inner walls of the room were lined from bottom to ceiling with bookshelves.  
A private study. An elf was sitting at the desk. Long golden curls drifted down the back of the chair. Before I had a chance to decide if I ought to try and curtsy, the elf had already turned around and was walking towards me, his right hand extended in the way of a human greeting. 

It was Glorfindel. I sighed with relief. "Lalorn did not understand what you wanted. He says you are agitated about something. Can I help you?"

"Yes, you can. Look, I know this sounds silly, but, I had this strange dream, and I remembered something… Frodo, how is he, and the wound?" I did not sound very coherent.

And Glorfindel's grave expression mad my heart skip a beat. "He is not well. Not well at all. But what is it you want to tell me?"

I exhaled, and then rushed on. "The blade. I think – I KNOW – a piece of the blade is still in the wound. And it's, it's…"

"It's working inwards, to the heart," Glorfindel concluded for me, a look of alarm spreading over his face. "I don't think they considered this possibility yet. Sit down, I will be back shortly."

Glorfindel left the room in three liquid paces. The door closed behind him with a soft thud.  
I sighed. That had been lucky. He had believed me.

I looked around me with curiosity. The room was exquisitely furnished, the wood of the couch table displaying a graining, which looked almost like a map or a beautiful abstract water-colour. The style of the woodwork and the masonry, as well as the pattern of the drapes and the upholstery reminded me of the style called Art Nouveau. The lines of the designs were graceful and flowing, calling to mind growing plants, wind and water.

A short time later the door opened again and Glorfindel returned. He sat down in the armchair opposite of me. "You were right. When I came to Frodo's room the Lord Elrond had just ascertained that there really is a piece of that foul weapon left in the wound. It will be difficult to reach it and take it out. This night will be critical. And Frodo is very weak. They have been fighting for his life ever since he was brought in two days ago."

"Two days ago!" I exclaimed. "I have been asleep for two days!"

A small smile lit the elf's face. "You were understandably exhausted. Your companions were up and about a good deal earlier than you. They are almost a day ahead of you with pranks and getting into difficulties. Merry and Pippin, that is. Sam is hovering around Frodo's room, trying to help."

"Oh," I said. Not good enough to be a ranger, not up to the energy level of a hobbit. Right.

"Now," Glorfindel continued. "You will want to take a bath and some new clothes. I have already asked my niece, Gily, to come over and take care of you."

"Thank you," I replied, looking at the frayed and muddy edges of my jeans, my cheeks hot with embarrassment.

"Don't let the differences between men and elves intimidate you, Lothíriel. We are only different, and not a better or more noble race than the mortal children of Ilúvatar." Glorfindel said kindly.

I nodded wordlessly. Looking into the clear face of the elf-lord, who was sitting across the room, it was, however, very hard not to be intimidated. His features were not only of an otherworldly beauty, but the depth of experience and wisdom beyond the measure of men was apparent in his face, and I had seen how he had remained standing, where even Aragorn had had to bow to the evil power of the eight riders.

Moments later the door opened after a soft knock and a slender, golden haired elvish maiden entered. Her movements were as liquid as Glorfindel's, it looked as if she had no bones at all, so flowing and graceful she walked. Her hair was golden like her uncle's, and intricately braided down to the back of her neck. It was impossible to see how long her hair was, but because of the elaborate knots of her hair-do, I suspected that it would reach down to her thighs. Although you could probably not call her thighs, thighs; her figure was just too lithe and birdlike to be described with words usually attributed to mortal curves.

Her smile was young and looked real, when she turned to me. "I am Gily. My uncle has asked me to take care of you. We have a wonderful bathing house down by the river. I will show you, just come with me."

I nodded, bowed clumsily to Glorfindel and followed her out of the room. Again I walked through many corridors, down several flights of steps, across sunlit terraces and through cloisters with graceful archways and singing fountains at their centre.  
Finally we stood in front of a low, long building at the banks of the river. Gily opened one of the great wooden doors and beckoned me inside.

Pure bliss! There were hot and warm baths, there were cold pools and at the back of the building was a room built into the river, where you could actually swim in the icy floods of the Bruinen. There were showers, and whirlpools, and steam baths and saunas.  
I went for a hot bath with lots of foam. Afterwards Gily made me lie down on a warm bench and insisted on massaging my back despite of my protests that I could not possibly allow her to do that. She simply ignored me. I fell asleep before she was finished smoothing away my bruises and lacerations.

When I woke a giggling Gily handed me a pale blue silken robe. It was an ingenious piece of clothing, there were no buttons, instead it was fastened with lengths of a darker blue silk, which were slung cross wise across the breasts, going around the back and slung into a difficult knot at the hip. The style emphasized the curve of my breasts and my hips. In contrast to the delicate figure of the elf I felt like galumphing Amazon.

What can't be cured, must be endured, I told myself. There was no way out of my skin. And it could be worse. I had lost weight during the travelling, and I had not been fat to begin with; and when I was slim enough to compare to Gily I would probably be starved to death.  
I sighed. I knew I should enjoy my curves. I knew I was not ugly, even if I was not a beauty – either by mortal or elvish standards. But I could not suppress an envious glance at Gily, who seemed to be floating ahead of me to take me to have dinner with my companions.  
I sighed again. Why was it so difficult to accept me the way God had made me?

**ooo**

Gily opened a door at the end of an entrance hall with a floor of grey and white checked marble. Behind the door I could see a long table laid eight persons. Next to the table Glorfindel and an old man were standing, deep in talk.  
I stopped dead in my tracks. 

I knew the old man.  
I had seen him before!

I stared at him wordlessly. I opened my mouth to say something, but felt myself completely at loss for anything intelligent to say.

The old man had noticed Gily and me. He turned towards with a broad grin. Bushy grey eyebrows, a long white beard, silver hair, this time neatly brushed, came down to slightly stooped shoulders. His blue eyes twinkled merrily.

The old tramp from the hill some miles to the South-West of Erlangen.  
He was here.

He extended his hand towards me.  
"And so we meet again, Lothíriel. You have come far since we met on that hill."

I swallowed hard, but took his hand. His grip was firm and comforting, his hand warm and I could feel distinct calluses at the base of his fingers and his thumb.  
"Who are you?" I asked dumbfounded.

The old man winked at me. "Most people call me Gandalf, this day and age. But you may call me Georg, if you prefer."


	10. Rivendell

**10. Rivendell**

"Gandalf," I gasped. A wizard! Not a tramp, but a wizard. "But what did you do in Germany?" I asked, confusion growing in my mind. What had he been doing that day on the hill? Why had he sent me here? Would he send me back now? My heart skipped a beat at the thought. Panic swept through me. Although I was nearly constantly worrying why I was here, and what I should do, especially with the things I knew about this world and its story, I realized that the thought of going back to earth filled me with terror.

Kind blue eyes studied my face. I almost felt as if the wizard reached out an invisible hand to soothe my anxious, agitated thoughts.  
"Your knowledge is already a heavy burden for you, Lothíriel," the wizard told me, his voice soft and comforting. "Please, forgive me if I don't add to this burden. For now, just accept that there is a reason for you to be here."

But can I stay? May I stay? I thought wildly, sudden tears stinging in my eyes. And when had it happened that I felt so close to this place, this world? Not to a person, though I liked my companions very much and admired Aragorn, but this world: the muddy roads, the clear air, and the wide lands we had travelled through on our way to Rivendell…

Gandalf smiled at me. His gaze was full of understanding. Suddenly I felt enveloped in a quick embrace. I noticed that the wizard was half a head taller than I was and quite powerfully built. A spicy scent clung to his robes and his beard was soft as silk.  
"I told you, you would find your place somewhere, didn't I?"

Then he released me, and I felt myself blushing hotly. I quickly rubbed my eyes, trying to hide the tears, which had overflowed with an unbelievable feeling of relief at Gandalf's reassurance. I felt an absolutely silly smile spread on my face.  
My place. My world.

**ooo**

Suddenly the door slammed open and Merry and Pippin raced inside. They spotted me, and suddenly I felt myself being choked by hobbity embraces. "Hey, Lothy, we thought you'd never wake! Why did you sleep so long?" Merry asked. Pippin rudely elbowed his friend in the side. "It's because she's that big. If you belong to the big people, everything you do is big: you eat big, you sleep big, you…" He could not go on, but doubled over with laughter.  
Merry shook his head in mock annoyance. "You have to excuse my cousin, my lords. He is not of age yet. Don't take any notice. He's just a foolish youngster!"

"But you're not of age either," Pippin objected. "Where's the food?" he added, looking hungrily at the table. Turning their attention to the most important matter at hand, dinner, the hobbits calmed down and chose seats next to each other, close to the door – evidently hoping to be served first in those strategically chosen places.

With the young hobbits settled down, I noticed that they were not alone, when they entered the room. A very old hobbit had accompanied them; he was now talking to Gandalf, their faces full of worry. Bilbo, I thought, this has to be Bilbo. And they are worried about Frodo. Bilbo had obviously noticed that I was watching him because he turned and walked over to me, politely extending his hand. He was small with age and his head was approximately at the level of my elbow. His hair was white and wispy, his face lined with wrinkles, but his eyes were the same bright blue I knew from Frodo.

"My name is Bilbo Baggins, formerly of Bagend, Hobbiton. Nice to meet you, at last! Aragorn and Gandalf have told me about your courage. Thank you for helping my nephew."

I swallowed nervously, unsure how to respond to such unexpected praise. "Thank you. I am honoured to meet you. I am Lothíriel." For the first time I did not feel the need to add a surname. I was Lothíriel. That was enough. The hobbit smiled up at me, the thousands of tiny lines around his eyes and mouth bunching together. I smiled back at Bilbo. He was really nice! And in his own way, he appeared to be just as ancient and full of wisdom as Gandalf.

I looked up and noticed that Glorfindel was watching us a smile on his beautiful elvish face. Then he looked straight at me, and I felt a thought touch my mind that was not my own. It is a wisdom of little things. But it is wisdom nonetheless. I stared at the elf who inclined his head towards me in a graceful bow. Speaking from mind to mind. I shivered, recalling the feeling of power, which had radiated from Glorfindel at the ford. Elves… I had never been able to imagine just how different from mortals they could be, just how different, how awesome, they would be. It was something that simply could not be explained, could not be described; you had to see them, meet them for yourself to understand that they were really an altogether different race from human beings. In fact, I felt a closer connection to the hobbits than I felt to the elves.

The hobbits, the little folk, were kin to the big folk, men, but the elves were… different, no matter what Glorfindel had said to overcome my initial nervousness at meeting one of the firstborn on our way to Rivendell.

The sound of the door opening again interrupted my musings. Aragorn entered the room, followed by an elvish woman. I could only stare at them in wonder and admiration.  
Gone was the shabby ranger from the dangerous road to Rivendell. It was Aragorn, Isildur's heir, who entered the room, not Strider, an unknown ranger from the North, but a lord of a most proud and noble lineage. He wore tight pants of black leather, supple boots of black leather, which went up to his knees, a black silk shirt and a tunic of black and silver stripes. The sombre clothing brought out the lustre in his dark hair, which was subtly streaked with silver. The beard, which had grown during our days on the road, was neatly trimmed, and his face looked younger than it had on the road, many lines of worry and hardship smoothed away by happiness. Where this happiness came from was easy to see, too. He smiled swiftly at his companion, and his eyes simply blazed with the light of love. Arwen's eyes lit up in return.

Then she turned towards me, and I felt instantly like a small and grubby child.  
Beautiful does not even begin to describe her. Her skin was pearly white, her face clear, untouched by age or sorrow. If I had ever wondered, how an angel might look like, now I knew. Her hair flowed in long, dark waves down to her hips. It was not black or brown, but shadowy like the twilight in the woods, and it gleamed like precious silver. Her eyes were silver, too. They were not grey; they were lit with the silver light of the first stars in a grey summer evening. Her gaze was more subtle than Glorfindel's but just as powerful. She was a queen of her people; her knowledge was deep, and her courage great.  
Her gown was made of three layers of white, silver and grey, but she was slender as a willow wand and moving swiftly and gracefully like a young girl nevertheless.

I let go of the breath I had been holding in a soft sigh.  
She extended her hand to me in the gesture of mortal greeting. I reached for her hand with my trembling right hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong and firm for such a slim hand.  
"I am Arwen. I am happy to meet you. Aragorn tells me you were an invaluable help on the road." I blushed hotly and mumbled something like 'not at all'. Aragorn smiled at me and gave me a wink, a gesture, which helped me to regain at least some composure.  
"Now that everyone is here, how about some dinner?" Bilbo asked.  
"Dinner should be here any moment now," Glorfindel told us. Then the elf turned to me. "Would you allow me to ask you to be my dinner partner?" he asked courteously.  
I felt myself blush once again, or at least my cheeks felt unaccountably hot. "Of course. Thank you, my lord, it's an honour!"

Glorfindel extended his arm and led me to the square table. Arwen and Aragorn sat down at the head of the table, Gandalf and Bilbo at the other end. This put Glorfindel and me opposite of Merry and Pippin, who were still staring at Arwen, completely enraptured.  
Only when elvish servants placed bowls of steaming soup in front of them, they managed to draw their attention away from the elvish beauty.  
The soup was a light green vegetable broth, broccoli, green asparagus, and something else I did not recognize.  
After the soup fish was served, lightly sprinkled with fresh herbs, and a white sauce, which tasted faintly sweet, almost like chocolate.  
A glass of pale golden wine went with the soup.

I concentrated on eating daintily, trying to display perfect table manners in such exalted company. The hobbits had no such compunctions; they just ate and talked, cheerfully, noisily, obviously enjoying themselves immensely.  
The meat course was venison, served with potatoes.  
The way the food was prepared, seasoned and presented reminded me of French cuisine. And the simple fact that elves did actually eat just the same way as humans do, and enjoy their food just the same way as humans do, including good wine, reassured me a lot.  
When the dessert arrived, a sorbet of red fruits, I felt almost at ease again.

After dinner Glorfindel led our party into a comfortable living room with several easy chairs and small tables, arranged in a circle around a large fireplace, where already a fire was crackling cosily. We were served a reddish liquor, which reminded me of sherry, but tasted intensely of berries, and small cups of a hot beverage, which was not coffee and not cocoa, but something in between.  
Bilbo favoured us with a rendition of a poem about sitting by the fireside. I recalled reading that poem, but only here and now I understood its meaning, listening to the sweet, wavering old voice of the hobbit. I sat, lost in thought, gazing into the fire.

**ooo**

Suddenly a noise made me look up. The door opened, and another elf entered the room. He looked very much like Arwen, tall and noble, with shadowy dark hair, which was braided to the back of his neck. He had silvery-grey eyes, just like Arwen. But he looked old, even though there was not a single line of age or weariness visible in his clear face. He looked ancient, tired, and sad, I thought confused. Glorfindel's blue gaze met mine; for a moment the elf looked at me full of surprise, and then I felt again the soft touch of thoughts which did not belong to my mind. You have keen eyes, Lothíriel. Lord Elrond of Rivendell is full of sorrow, a sorrow that will never lift in this age.

So this was Elrond Half-Elven, the Lord of Rivendell and mighty among both Elves and Men.  
"I have good news I wanted to bring to you personally," Elrond said, addressing Gandalf, who had risen from his chair, undisguised anxiety in his bright blue eyes. I could see how the old wizard exhaled slowly, his tense shoulders sagging with relief. "An hour ago I discovered the piece of the Morgul blade, which was left in Frodo's wound," Elrond continued. "It had almost reached the hobbit's heart. I removed it, and he is sleeping peacefully now. He will recover in a few days."

Merry and Pippin jumped up at that and shouted hooray, their bright, high voices echoing in the room. Elrond smiled at them wearily, his eyes lighting up as he watched the joy of the two young hobbits. Arwen rose from the couch, where she had been sitting with Aragorn.  
She went over to her father and took his hand in hers. "You should go to bed now and rest, Ada. You have not slept at all, since the hobbit was carried here."  
Elrond inclined his head and laid a tender kiss on the dark crown of his daughter's head.  
His eyes were almost black with grief, but he smiled, and his voice did not betray his feelings.  
"Always taking care of me, aren't you, íëll-nîn, my daughter?" Then he straightened up and gave the room a slight bow. "But I think my daughter is right. If you will excuse me; there will be other evenings we can spend together to discuss your voyage."

Arwen walked with her father back to the door and exchanged a few whispered words in Sindarin with him. Then he was gone and Arwen returned to her seat next to Aragorn. Her expression was tinged with sorrow, too, and Aragorn's face was tense, his eyes clouded with internal pain.

I felt like an intruder on this private grief and wished myself out of this room. Glorfindel smiled at me sympathetically, but I could see a reflection of this sorrow in his bright blue eyes as well. I recalled the brightness of Arwen's eyes meeting Aragorn's gaze, how both their faces lit up with love, when they had entered the dining room tonight. I swallowed hard. I experienced a sudden, sharp stab of pain at seeing a love as great as theirs inevitably connected with grief and sorrow.

**ooo**

A few days later a feast was held in Frodo's honour. It was the first time that I entered the great hall, and I felt at once intimidated by its splendour. The vaulted ceiling looked like the hull of an enormous ship, huge beams of wood gilded with gold swept in wide arcs across the expanse of the hall. Large golden chandeliers alight with thousands of white candles, which smelled lightly of honey, were suspended from those beams, and in the huge fireplaces at the ends of the hall great fires were roaring. The walls were covered with exquisite tapestries, which showed scenes of elvish history or mythology. They were more beautiful and extravagantly crafted than any of the precious pieces of medieval Brussels that I had ever seen in a museum back on earth.

On a dais a long white table had been set up for the guests of honour and the nobility of the elves of Rivendell. Elrond sat in a throne-like chair at the head of the table. Glorfindel sat next to Elrond to the right and Gandalf to the left.

Frodo was a few seats down the table, sitting next a venerable looking dwarf. There were so many people to observe… most were elves, but there were some men and even several dwarves. Arwen was there as well, sitting at the centre of the long table, exactly opposite of the great golden doors, which led into the hall. A kind of canopy was suspended from the walls above her, emphasizing her exalted position. But she looked worried, and Aragorn was nowhere in sight.

To my discomfiture I had been given the place of honour at one of the side tables. Merry and Pippin were seated to my right, Sam and a dwarf with an unruly red beard to my left.  
Reluctantly I turned my eyes from the grandeur of the long table back to my companions.  
The dwarf, who had obviously waited to catch my attention, promptly rose from his seat and bowed very low.

"Gimli, son of Glóin, at you service," he said in a deep, grumbling voice, and bowed again.

My heart skipped a beat, as I quickly shoved back my chair and rose, extending my hand politely. Gimli! "My name is Lothíriel. I am honoured to meet you."

He looked a bit confused at the proffered hand but shook it vigorously all the same.  
Gimli was as tall as the hobbits, perhaps half a hand taller, but he was much more powerfully built, he was positively burly. A force of nature. "It is an honour to meet you, my lady. I heard tell that you accompanied Aragorn and the hobbits from Bree to Rivendell. A dangerous road for a lady. You are truly valiant," he said respectfully.

I smiled at him, feeling heat creep into my cheeks. I had done nothing but trudging along wearily, and everyone was so full of praise. This was getting really embarrassing. "I don't really know," I said. "But tell me, if you may, why you are here, and where do you come from."

Gimli answered that they had come for the council, bringing messages of their king, and that he was not at liberty to discuss any details. But he was liberal with stories about his home, the city of Dale and Under-the-Mountain.

As the feast drew to its end the hobbits and I knew intricate details about the architecture of Dale, about what kinds of metals and jewels could be found in which mountains of Middle Earth and about the complicated hierarchy of dwarfish society.

**ooo**

I was almost relieved, when Elrond finally rose and walked over to his daughter to signal the end of the feast. He extended his arm to his daughter and led the company through the wide golden doors of the Great Hall down a wide passage and into another hall. We followed behind, keeping to the order arranged by the position of the tables of the Great Hall.

This second hall had a comparatively low, cross-vaulted ceiling supported by Romanesque columns. Walls and ceiling were made of finely grained sandstone, which shimmered with a subtle golden hue in the light of the fire that was burning in a great hearth, which was set between two intricately carved pillars. The design showed spiralling flowering vines bearing leaves, blooms and fruit, which looked absolutely life-like. There were no tables in this hall but long, comfortable benches at the walls and around the columns, and many easy chairs arranged in small groups around the fireside. Next to the hearth an area had been cleared for a group of elvish musicians. They had just finished preparing their instruments and now they launched into a hauntingly beautiful melody.

Sitting on a stool with his back to one of the columns in the shadow, I spotted Bilbo. He seemed to have dozed off, and only then I realized that he had not been at the feast. Elrond, with Frodo at his side, walked over to the old hobbit and talked to him. Bilbo slowly raised his head, and then was almost thrown off his seat by Frodo's enthusiastic embrace. Even from my position at the back of the hall I could see the tears of joy in Frodo's eyes. Frodo still looked incredibly fragile and pale, but his eyes were bright again and free of that horrible pained expression.

Elrond left Frodo with Bilbo and walked back to the two chairs, which had been obviously prepared for the lord of Rivendell and his daughter in the best position in front of the fire and the musicians. I found a place in the company of Merry and Pippin on a bench at the wall opposite of the elvish musicians.

Within minutes I was lost in the magic of elvish music.

Later in the evening Bilbo recited a long, beautiful ballad about Eärendil, the mariner. Although it had not quite the musical quality of the elvish poems, which had been presented in the course of the evening, it touched something deep in my heart.  
But what really moved me to tears was the hymn to Elbereth Gilthoniel, in which all the elves joined in. It was the hymn, which had first made me try to learn Sindarin years ago, the first Sindarin words I had learned by heart.

_A Elbereth Gilthoniel, sillivren penna míriel…  
_  
When I finally retired to my room, the beauty of the elvish voices raised in song to praise Elbereth the Fair still echoed in my heart. Listening to this song of prayer I felt as if my soul had been touched by a blessing from way above.

As I curled up in the soft white covers of my bed, I recalled a quotation of a poem by Wordsworth that I had read a long time ago:  
_And as I mounted up the hill,  
The music in my heart I bore,  
Long after it was heard no more._

And all at once I had the feeling that I would bear this hymn of elvish prayer and blessing forever in my heart – wherever I might go from here.

I fell asleep within seconds, feeling perfectly at peace with the world.

**oooOooo**

* * *

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JunoMagic


	11. The Council of Elrond

**11. The Council of Elrond**

I was walking in the gardens with Glorfindel early the next morning, when Gandalf caught up with us. "They are getting ready for the council. Lothíriel, you are asked to attend, too. But don't speak of what you know or what you think you know. There will be persons there who may not discover that you have… shall we say, a gift of foresight." The wizard nodded at Glorfindel and then hurried on down to the stream, where I could see the small figure of Bilbo slowly walking along the banks, leaving me without an opportunity to object to the invitation to the council.

I closed my mouth, which I had opened to say that I did not want to take part in this council, and turned to Glorfindel, my hands raised in a gesture of defeat. "Why can't he ask a person in the usual fashion? To at least give you the time to adjust to such a summons?"  
Glorfindel shrugged but turned back to the houses. "We have a saying about wizards," he told me. _"Do not meddle in the affairs of Wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger."_  
"Yeah," I said bleakly. "I know that one." Glorfindel raised a delicately slanted golden eyebrow at me. "However, you would have been invited even if Gandalf had not insisted on your inclusion." At that moment the bright, clear sound of a bell drifted across to us from one of the many turrets of the Last Homely House. "This is the signal for the council. Please remember what Gandalf said. It is best if you don't speak at all, and especially that you don't reveal anything you might know."

Caught in the intense blue gaze of the elf-lord I only nodded, swallowing dryly. What had Gandalf told Glorfindel about my origins? And why wanted Gandalf that I took part in the council? Why, indeed, had Gandalf sent me to Middle Earth? I had not dared to ask the wizard, as he had indicated plainly on that first evening, when I had met him here in Rivendell that he would not give me any further explanation.

However, I did not believe for a second that he had only wanted to give me the chance to find my true home here in Middle Earth, no matter how dearly I had wished to escape my life back on earth that day on the hill.

I sighed. There was nothing I could do to solve this mystery at the moment. So I turned and followed Glorfindel up the winding path to the house. The elf led me to a wide porch which faced southwards to the peaceful valley of Rivendell. The terrace lay in a spot of bright sunlight, and even though it was the end of October, it was comfortably warm out here in the open. A long table had been put up on the terrace, with a number of wooden chairs with high regal backs arranged around it. On the table a number of maps and old documents were spread out. Elrond sat at the head of the table. Next to him was the dark haired elf called Erestor, who served as Elrond's scribe for such occasions, as Glorfindel had explained to me.

**ooo**

Glorfindel led me to the far end of the table and chose a chair next to me. I looked around the table full of curiosity. My heartbeat was speeding up, and there were butterflies in my stomach. The chapter of the council had always been one of my favourite chapters. It felt very strange to be here now, and to know what was going to be decided here today. I shivered in spite of the warm sunshine bathing my face. I experienced a frightening sensation of unreality which made me grip the armrests of my chair so tightly that my knuckles stood out whitely. I realized that the thing I feared most by now was to wake up back on earth, with my life just as it had been, and the last weeks only a dream which could never come true.  
I forced myself to breathe slowly and evenly, and to concentrate my attention on the other members and guests of this council.

Gimli was present along with another dwarf who had very white hair and an extremely long beard the same colour as his hair. That had to be Glóin, Gimli's father.

Next to Erestor a tall, fair-haired and grey-eyed elf was seated. Galdor, Glorfindel told me, an emissary from the Grey Havens. Then came Elrond's twin sons. They were identical twins and looked like a younger, more carefree version of their father. There were several more elves of Rivendell at the right side of the table, who I had seen before, at dinner or in the gardens, but there was a strange elf in their midst who wore travelling clothes of green and brown and not the delicate robes favoured by the nobility of Rivendell. This elf was slightly smaller than the Rivendell elves, his figure very slender and lithe. He had long, silvery-blond hair, but his eyes were a greenish-brown colour like oak-leaves. Legolas, prince of Mirkwood, the son of Thranduil, king of the Elves of Mirkwood, Glorfindel explained to me in a low voice.

On the other side of the table a man sat with his chair moved back from the table a little, so that he was placed apart from the other diners. He had short dark hair, which barely touched his shoulders, and proud grey eyes. His clothes were rich and well made, but they were badly travel-stained. On his knees he held a great horn, which was tipped with silver. Boromir, I whispered in a low voice. Glorfindel raised his eyebrows at me, his look stern and reprimanding. I gulped and pressed my lips together. Don't talk. Don't think.

Next to Boromir Aragorn had taken seat, his face grave, his eyes cool. There was a certain tension around his shoulders. As the bell rang a second time, Gandalf entered the porch along with Bilbo and Frodo. Bilbo sat down next to Aragorn, and Frodo between Bilbo and Gandalf.  
Now every seat was taken.

Elrond rose from his seat and looked at the faces of elves, dwarves, humans and hobbits gathered around the table. "In dark days ambassadors of all free peoples of Middle Earth have come to Imladris, to hold counsel in the face of the threat of the dark lord in the East. I ask for the blessing and the wisdom of the Valar and the One for all that is discussed today."

"So mote it be," was the ritual answer all around the table.

Then Elrond proceeded to the introductions of everyone who was present.  
When he said my name and introduced me as a visitor from a distant country, I was suddenly aware of the fact that I was the only woman present. Boromir turned around and stared at me for a moment, his gaze piercing. I felt an uncomfortable wave of heat rise to my face and determinedly looked away from the Gondorian warrior.

The first part of the council was spent giving and analyzing news from all directions of Middle Earth by the different representatives of elves, dwarves and men.  
This took a long time and was an exhausting business. There were many names and events discussed that I had never heard of and could not even begin to place. I recalled how Tolkien had dismissed those details in the book: _"Not all that was spoken and debated in the Council need now be told."_

I was tired and my head was throbbing, when finally Elrond began to speak. Listening to his clear, melodic voice my fatigue disappeared at once. Completely fascinated I heard for the first time the whole story of Sauron, the making of the rings and the wars of the second age of Middle Earth.

At the end of his tale the elf-lord sighed, his grey eyes filled with the shadows of dark memories of ages forgotten by almost anyone else. "I remember well the splendour of their banners," he added at last, his voice full of low sorrow. "It reminded me of the glory of the Elder Days and the hosts of Beleriand. Many great princes and captains had assembled for this final battle of the Last Alliance, and yet they were not so many, nor so fair, as when Thangorodrim was broken in the first age of the world – when the Elves had thought that evil was destroyed forever, and it was not so. Valiant warriors of elves and men rode out on the plains of Dagorlad that day, and most of them died that very day." He sighed and cast down his eyes.

"How awful," I blurted out. Almost instantly I felt the warning touch of Glorfindel's hand on my shoulder, and as I felt myself wilt under Elrond's piercing silver gaze, heat suffused my face, and I wanted nothing so much than simply to vanish into thin air, or at least turn into a mouse and run off.  
"Yes," answered Elrond gravely. "So it was indeed. But that is the way of this world; my memory reaches back even to the Elder Days. I have seen three ages in the West of the world, and indeed many centuries of defeats and fruitless victories of long forgotten valour."

And then Elrond told about the day when he marched with Gil-galad's army to the plains of Dagorlad as the herald of the High King of the Elves, the day Gil-galad died, and Elendil was killed, and Elendil's famous sword, Narsil, was broken beneath him. His voice firm sounded, but his eyes dark with grief for people dead for more than three thousand years.  
"Isildur, in his desperation, slashed at the enemy's hand with the hilt-shard of Narsil and cut off the ring, which held the enemy's most horrible power. The battle was won. And Isildur took the ring for his own."  
"So that is what happened to the Ring!" Boromir exclaimed. "We remember the Great Ring in Gondor, but it is commonly assumed that it was lost in the ruin of the enemy's first realm.  
So it was Isildur, who took it! That is tidings indeed!"  
"Alas!" Elrond replied. "Isildur took it. Círdan and I tried to convince him to destroy this evil thing once and forever. We asked him to cast it into the fiery chasm of the Orodruin, where it had been made. But he would not listen to our counsel. He took it and called it weregild, but its price was high, for it betrayed Isildur when he was on his way back across the Gladden Fields. Orcs came upon his company. Isildur and his three eldest sons and all their men but three were killed. And it was Ohtar, Isildur's squire, who saved the shards of Narsil and brought them and the news of Isildur's death to Rivendell, where Valandil, Isildur's heir, dwelt."

Elrond finished his story with a brief outline of the history of Middle Earth up to this very day. He did not speak of the ring anymore until the very end of his tale.  
"Thus it was that the Ruling Ring passed out of all knowledge, and the Three were free of its dominion. Now, however, they and all their workings are in peril again. The One Ring has been found. But others shall tell the tale of its finding, for I had little part in this."

**ooo**

When Elrond had fallen silent, Boromir stood up, and made a speech about the danger of the East and the valour of Gondor, and he told of the dream he had had, which had finally brought him to Rivendell – hoping to find an answer to this mystery.

"And here you shall find it," said Aragorn, and laid the shards of his sword on the table. "Here is the sword that was broken."  
"But who are you? What is your business with the heirlooms of Gondor?" Boromir asked, staring at Aragorn in astonishment. Aragorn, back in his faded travelling clothes, did not look like an heir of kings, but like a run-down ranger from the North today.  
"He is Aragorn son of Arathorn," Elrond replied, and his eyes were bright with affection for the tall man, standing next to the shards of Elendil's sword. "He is a direct descendant of Isildur, Elendil's son, and Chief of the Dúnedain of the North."  
"But then it's yours!" Frodo cried and jumped to his feet, amazement plain on his small face.  
"It does not belong to either of us," Aragorn disagreed. "And I would not want it, even if it could belong to me. However, now is the time to tell the story how the Ring was found, and how it came into your hands."  
"Bring out the ring," Gandalf asked solemnly.

I watched as Frodo took the golden ring out of his pocket and held it up before the Council in a small, trembling hand.

A small golden ring.  
Nothing special.  
Just a small golden ring in the hand of a hobbit.

I stared at the ring, and suddenly I was afraid, more afraid than I have ever been afraid before in my life. I felt icy drops of sweat form on my forehead, and I was shivering all over.  
The ring seemed to grow in Frodo's hand. I discovered that I could not turn my eyes away from the ring. It seemed to me that the sun had vanished and that the bright and peaceful valley of Imladris was suddenly full of dark and deadly shadows. And a voice seemed to speak to me from the shadows, and it urged me to take the ring because only then I would be able to stay here in Middle Earth forever, where I belonged, where my heart was.

I was close to jumping from my chair and running to the hobbit, when the small nagging voice of my doubts and my fears, which had troubled me so much these many weeks in Middle Earth, suddenly came awake again at the back of my mind. That ring is evil, a part of me was saying. It really is evil. If you ever doubted that you were really in Middle Earth, if you ever doubted that all of this is real, now you know. It is evil. And it is real. But I need the ring, another part of me screamed with desperation. I need it! To stay here! But it was not the ring, which brought you here, the obnoxious part of my brain countered. It was Gandalf. And he did not bring you here to take the ring. You know the story. The ring is not your story.  
I felt myself torn apart internally, until I did not know which fear was stronger in my mind, the fear of losing my new home, or the fear of the ring's evil.

Fiery wheels began to grow in front of my eyes, the disturbances of vision often heralding a migraine or a faint. Fiery wheels, turning faster and faster, reaching out for me.

Take it.  
_Take it. _  
No.  
**No. **  
Then die.  
Just die.  
_But I…_

_"Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul."_A shadow gripped my very soul, and in my fear I cried out, feeling tears running down my face, and I was shaking so hard, I could not even raise my hands to close my ears. When I thought I was close to passing out, I felt someone take my right hand, and within moments a measure of calmness returned to me. The ring was again only a small golden ring, the horrible voice and the fiery wheels were gone from my mind.

I turned my head away from the scene and clutched desperately at the strength of Glorfindel, who had come to my rescue.

"Never before has anyone dared to utter words of that black tongue in Imladris, Gandalf the Grey," Elrond said, and as he rose from his seat, the lingering shadows were swept away, and the sun warmed the company once more. In Imladris Elrond was master, and the shadows, which lived in the valley, were only those of tree and bush and mountain, and they obeyed his command.

I clung to Glorfindel's hand like a frightened child, and for several hours not much of what was said registered with me.

"Who will read this riddle for us?" Erestor asked, and as if on cue, all faces turned to Elrond.  
But the Lord of Imladris shook his head. "None here can do so," he said gravely. And Gandalf raised his eyebrows ever so slightly and his blue eyes blazed a warning for me, just as Glorfindel tightened the hold on my hand. "At least none can foretell what will come to pass, if we take this road or that." I swallowed hard, my heart beating like drum almost painfully.  
I bit down on my lips, hard. Don't talk. Don't think. And don't look at the ring. Just don't.  
Boromir's voice broke my concentration.

"Let the Ring be our weapon if it has such power as you say. Take it and go forth to victory!"  
There was a nervous urgency in Boromir's voice and as I looked up, I saw a strange gleam in his eyes as he looked at the ring.

I quickly looked back to the ground. Don't even think of looking at this evil thing. Just don't.  
I bit harder on my lip. I bit down so hard that I felt a sharp pain and then the taste of blood in my mouth. But I was glad of the distraction.

How well did I now understand what had happened to Boromir! And I could not even begin to imagine, how Frodo had managed to stay sane on the long road from Bree to Rivendell.

"I fear to take the Ring even to hide it," Elrond was saying. "I will never take the Ring to wield it." I looked up at Elrond and was shocked to see a shadow of the same fear in the elf-lord's eyes that was choking me. I threw a desperate glance at Glorfindel, who gave me a slight smile, and widened his blue, blue eyes. _Don't be afraid. I won't let you fall._ I felt the soothing mind-touch of the elf and suddenly could breathe easier.  
"Nor I," agreed Gandalf. "Its evil is too great."

"But what strength do we have?" Erestor asked, "to find the fire in which the ring was shaped and unmake it therein? Isn't it folly to believe we could get there unseen? A path of despair?"  
It was Gandalf, who finally answered. "It is our only hope. A decision of wisdom and necessity – and if folly should be our cloak, so be it! Because in all things the enemy sees malice and desire of power; into his heart the thought will never enter that any will refuse it, that having the Ring we might seek to destroy it. This is the only chance we have to put the enemy out of reckoning."  
"At least for a time," agreed Elrond. "But this will be a most difficult endeavour, a hard road indeed that we must choose. And neither strength nor wisdom will carry us far upon it."  
"But who shall go?" inquired Erestor. "Who has the courage to take on this quest? Who shall bear this burden?" And he pointed at the ring, which Frodo had placed in front of him on the table. Frodo sat hunched and pale on his chair, watched by Bilbo with worried eyes.  
Suddenly the older hobbit sighed and straightened up. "I will. You need not say another word. I started this mess; I'd better end it. Although I was very comfortable here, and I had the ending for my book all planned."

I swallowed hard when I heard this valiant offer of the ancient and already quite frail hobbit. I had seen his face as he had looked at Frodo just now. Bilbo had offered his life because he was afraid of what the ring was already doing to his nephew. Gandalf turned Bilbo's offer down with kind words, and all the Elves were looking at the old hobbit respectfully, and Glóin smiled to himself lost in memories of another story, which had not been as dark and dangerous. Only Boromir did not understand the quality of the offer and looked at the hobbit with an irritated expression on his face.

Although Bilbo looked secretly relieved at being told this quest was meant for others, at the same time he seemed to be a little bit annoyed with this decision. When he asked who would be sent instead, his voice was more than a bit grumpy.  
"I am only an old hobbit, you said so in no uncertain terms. And I really do miss my meal at noon, which I had to skip for this splendid Council. Can't you think of some names now? Or put the choosing of your messengers off till after dinner?"

Silence fell. I did not look at Frodo. I knew what would happen. I felt choked. I wished there was a way I could help him that I could tell him everything would work out, that he'd succeed. And the ring seemed to whisper to me: yes, yes, tell them, tell them everything, tell them, tell them, and I will know, I will know… and I shivered again. But there was the comforting touch of Glorfindel's hand. And I had promised I would not say anything of what I knew. I would never look at this evil ring again, I thought. And I would keep my promise. No matter if I was allowed to stay, or if Gandalf chose to send me back.

"I will take the Ring," a small, high voice suddenly said. "Though I do not know the way."

Elrond rose from his seat and walked over to the hobbit. He knelt down in front of the hobbit, carefully keeping as far away from the ring as possible, and took Frodo's hands. "If I understand anything from all the stories and tales discussed here today, I think that this task has been appointed to you, Frodo. And that if you do not find a way, no on will."

Elrond returned to the head of the table and looked at the assembled.  
"But who shall go with you?" he asked. "Because it is as I said, neither wisdom nor strength of arms will win your day, but you may need both ere you come to the end of your quest."  
Sam, I thought. Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli. And Merry and Pippin. I swallowed hard. And Boromir. And Boromir. Poor Boromir. Suddenly I felt Elrond's gaze on me. I looked up into his silver-grey, piercingly keen eyes. Sam. Gandalf. Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli. Boromir. Merry and Pippin.

Elrond inclined his head ever so slightly.

At that moment, Sam jumped up from the corner where he had been sitting.  
"But surely you won't let him go alone, Master Elrond!" he cried, anxiously looking at Frodo, who stood transfixed, clutching the ring in his hand.  
"No, indeed," Elrond answered, and for the first time I saw something like a grin on the serious face of the elf-lord. "It is hardly possible to separate you from him, even when he summoned to a secret council and you are not."  
Sam ran over to Frodo. He was blushing furiously and trying to hide behind his friend and master, which was, of course, impossible, because Frodo was much more slender than Sam, especially since his illness.  
"But I think," Elrond continued, "that we should choose a company, fellowship, to accompany the ring-bearer. Although their number must be few as our hope lies in stealth and secrecy."  
"Send nine and one," Gandalf suggested. "A counterpart to the nine riders foul and black, and one on top, a sign of hidden strength we may yet possess."  
Sam. Merry. Pippin. Gandalf, I thought again. Aragorn. Boromir. Legolas. Gimli.

I looked up and met Gandalf's blue gaze, which was just as keen and penetrating as Elrond's had been.

**ooo**

Just then the discussion was interrupted by servants bearing trays with dinner because we had indeed spent the whole day talking, and even though the sun was already setting, not yet all decisions were made. While we were eating silently, the servants lit a large fire in the middle of the terrace, which would keep us warm should the debate on who was to go with the ring-bearer last deep into the night.

Elrond and Gandalf were deep in talk during the meal, and I could easily guess what they were talking about: the fellowship, and who should be chosen to accompany Frodo.

When the remains of dinner had been cleared away, Elrond returned to the matter at hand.  
"There are several suggestions as to who should accompany the ring-bearer. I shall tell you who we think would be of help to this dark and dangerous quest. But it is up to you who are named to decide whether or not you will take on this quest. Nine and one, Gandalf has said.  
And I agree. The one should be Gandalf as a leader for the company. But who else is to go?  
To honour the alliance of all free peoples of Middle Earth, who have met for this council, one representative of each people should go: dwarves, elves and men."  
Elrond paused for a moment. Then he looked at Legolas, who inclined his head gracefully.  
"Legolas, son of Thranduil, shall go for the elves."  
He turned his gaze to the dwarves, and Gimli rose to his feet at once and bowed to the elves and the rest of the Council.  
"Gimli, son Glóin, shall represent the dwarves."  
Aragorn rose from his seat. "And I shall go for the men. And I hope that I will not be alone." With that he turned to Boromir, who stood up at once and bowed to the ranger, although his eyes remained full of doubt. His voice, however, was firm, when he spoke. "Gondor shall not fail the world in this hour of need. I will go with you, and one day we shall draw swords together to fight for Minas Tirith and Gondor!"  
"Sam has already offered," Elrond said after Aragorn and Boromir had taken seat again.  
Just then Sam rose to his feet and held up his right arm, as if he was at school and wanted to ask something of the teacher. Elrond nodded and smiled at the plump hobbit. "My Lord Elrond," Sam said with a trembling voice. "You should consider Merry and Pippin. They would do everything for Frodo. Without them, we would not even have made it to Bree!"  
Gandalf smiled at this, but he caught Elrond's eye and gave an almost imperceptible nod.  
"Very well," Elrond said. "Though my heart is not sure about this decision, Merry and Pippin shall go with you, too."

The Lord of Rivendell sighed. Then he looked up and directed his penetrating gaze at me again. Suddenly apprehension welled up inside of me. What was the meaning of this?  
"And Lothíriel. As Gandalf has reminded me that women, too, have lives, homes and destinies to loose, should our plan fail."

Lothíriel? Me? Go to Mordor? Oh fuck.  
What did Gandalf know?  
Why should I go?

I looked at Frodo, pale and withdrawn. Going to the end of the world to save the Shire. But he would not live to enjoy it. I knew what would happen after all. He would pass into the West.  
And there was Legolas, who was going to save a world, where he could not stay after hearing those damn gulls at Pelargir. Aragorn. Boromir, who I knew would die.

But what of me?  
What of me?  
Why was I here?  
Why should I go?

Suddenly, quite out of the blue I remembered an evening of our journey from Bree to Rivendell. A campfire. A dark night sky with myriads of stars. The sound of cicadas in the grass all around. The easy companionship with the hobbits. The valour of Aragorn. Glorfindel's bright power, which he would sacrifice, to save Middle Earth, even though he knew it would hasten the day of farewell for his people.

I remembered the sudden, unexpected feeling of belonging.  
A feeling of home.  
A feeling I had experienced for the first time in the middle of nowhere, stinking of sweat, battered and bruised, pursued by evil enemies…  
Home.

Whatever else might be on Gandalf's agenda, where I was concerned, I realized with a start that in the middle of all the toil and trouble of this Middle Earth my wish had come true, the wish, which had made me leave my studies and the city of Erlangen weeks ago.  
I had somehow found a place where I belonged, a place, where I wanted to be – no matter what. A home. And not only a home, but a home I would die for.

I looked at Gandalf and felt a smile spread across my face.

"I will go wherever it is necessary to go," I said in a calm and clear voice. I knew without looking at him that Glorfindel smiled at me, this magical bright smile, which only elves could smile. I felt a bittersweet feeling of pain and joy in my heart, but I did not cry.


	12. Preparations for the Journey

**13. Preparations for the Journey**

I was sitting on a low wall of white stones in the gardens of Rivendell and enjoyed the first timid rays of this late October sun. From my position I could survey most of the valley; I had risen early and crept up to the top of the gardens to watch the sunrise. Aragorn said that this golden October would not last for more than one or two days. If you know a ranger, who needs a TV weather forecast?

At the banks of the Bruinen the valley was swirling with white mists. The Eastern sides of the mountains surrounding the ragged edges of Imladris were still dark with shadows, and I knew that even in the brightest sunlight the dark green of fir and pine looked rather forbidding. But on the gentler Western slopes oak, beech, poplar and maple trees lightened up the twilight of the firs and pines. The last few days of cold but sunny weather had turned their leaves to gold, orange, red and yellow. Fall had always been my favourite time of the year, and in this sheltered valley it was almost too beautiful to bear.

I thought about the Council the day before and cringed. _"I will go wherever it is necessary to go" _– I could hardly have put it in a more dramatic and idiotic way. I blushed with shame and hung my head. Yesterday should have been Frodo's hour. His was the burden, after all. I shuddered as I remembered the horrible power of the ring. Even the memory seemed to darken the sunlight.  
I still did not understand why Gandalf wanted me along. And the wizard had said very plainly that he would not explain, or tell me what to do with my knowledge of things to come.

Suddenly I noticed something.  
Had the bushes behind me moved by themselves? Or was it only the cool wind blowing down from the white peaks of the Misty Mountains?  
It was not the wind.  
Glorfindel stepped out of the thicket and walked towards me in his fluid elvish stride. He had braided his long golden hair at the nape of his neck. This style emphasized the clear cut, very masculine lines of his face. His eyes were a blue even deeper than the October sky. He wore grey leggings and a tunic of a darker grey colour.

"Have you been watching me?" I asked, trying not to feel annoyed. Did they still not trust me? Glorfindel sat down next to me; his face was calm. It was difficult to read any expression in elvish faces, but if asked to place a bet, I would have said the elf-lord looked worried.  
"Yes, I have been watching you. But not because I don't trust you. I am worried for you. If you are to travel with the fellowship, you will have to learn to shield yourself from the influence of this evil… thing. You were completely open to its evil powers yesterday."  
"Open? How open? And how could I ever learn to guard myself against something like that?"  
"Open!" Glorfindel sighed. "How can you explain colours to the blind? I can see your mind; I could see it from the first time I met you. You are almost like a child; your mind, your soul - they are like glass to me."  
"Like glass?" I gasped. Had he heard everything that I had been thinking, all of the time?  
"No, normally I can't read you thoughts, and I would not, if it was not extremely urgent. It is more a way to judge the character of a person. You do the same thing with the senses you have; the first impression of a person you meet. You have an instinctive feeling if you can trust him or her, or of like or dislike. The firstborn – the elves – can see deeper, truer than this instinctive feeling, those hunches as you call them. So I knew I could trust you, and I knew, too, that you had told Aragorn the truth about where you came from."  
"Oh." I said, still feeling uncomfortable.  
"You have to learn to shield your mind. You can do that. Everyone can do that. And you have to do it, or you won't last long on this journey."  
I recalled all too clearly, how I had been swept away by the power of the ring, how I had needed hours to return to my normal self. I nodded and swallowed dryly. "I know that. What do I have to do?"  
"We will start with some visualization. Aragorn says that simple images work best for mortals. You have to imagine a safe place for your soul, your mind – the essence that makes up your sense of being you. You can imagine a wall around you, or a thorny hedge, or trees or stones or water. Use the image that comes to your mind first. Then try to make it as real in your thoughts as possible. I will be able to see if you do it correctly."

A safe place for my soul? Where should I find that? Right here, the little voice at the back of my mind answered. How did you feel this morning before you gave in to self-pity?  
Safe, I thought. And happy. I looked down at the low wall of white stones and up into the bright blue sky. Then, suddenly, an image was there. I was sitting cross-legged on a round patch of grassy lawn. All around me rose a wall made of white stone. It was strong; it was indestructible, but it did not close in on me. It was higher than any horse could jump, but above the walls was the bright blue October sky, which was above me now. I felt safe. I felt sheltered. I felt like floating inside of me, sure of myself.

Suddenly I felt pressure build against my wall. Stones were crumbling! I came back to reality with a scream. I looked into Glorfindel's face, and his blue eyes were blazing with an inhuman fire. He had made my wall crumble.

For the first time since I knew him, I felt scared. In that instance his eyes turned back to their normal bright blue, but he looked sad. "I had to test the strength of you walls. You made a good start. Now, we should practice every day until you leave. Elrond sent out messengers to search for the riders today and survey all the paths you can take on your journey as far as possible. It will take them at least a month to return. I don't think you will be able to leave here until the middle of December, or even later. You should be strong enough to ward off the presence of the ring by then. But never look at it. And never, ever touch it. That would be your undoing. No mortal man or woman is strong enough to withstand this evil."  
"But Frodo is?" I asked.  
"Frodo… he might be. Hobbits are curious creatures, resourceful, tough." He looked at me, and shook his head as I opened my mouth. "Don't," he said softly. "Don't tell me anything you might think you know. Foreknowledge is the most dangerous knowledge of all."  
I closed my mouth, and an icy shiver ran down my spine. That was more or less what Aragorn and Gandalf had told me, too. And I remembered that Aragorn took me with him at the beginning solely because he was scared what the enemy might do with my knowledge.  
My mouth went dry as I realized that this aspect of my knowledge was still true. If I was caught, we might as well present Sauron the ring on a silver platter.

Why had Gandalf insisted that I accompany the fellowship if I was that dangerous to their quest? They should lock me up in a hole in Rivendell and never let me out until the whole thing was over! And I was neither a ranger nor a sword fighter. And I was scared of heights.  
My heart was thumping almost painfully in my chest. Since I had come to Middle-earth, I had turned into a real expert on how fear can feel – from clammy palms to shivering uncontrollably to feeling sick with fright.

Suddenly I felt a hand touch my shoulder. It was a warm, soft touch; it eased my fears and kept away the shadows that threatened to overcome the bright sunshine of this morning.  
Elvish magic. I looked up at Glorfindel and felt embarrassed at the sympathy I could see in his face. "Why?" I whispered. "I just don't understand. I was not happy with my life. I always dreamed of this world. But what good could I do among the fellowship? I am not a ranger, I am not a warrior, I don't have the resilience of a hobbit… and what I know is so dangerous, and you keep telling me not to say anything of what I know! I just don't understand why Gandalf let me come here."

Glorfindel did not answer right away. He looked over the peaceful valley, the soft mists melting away in the sunshine, lost in thought. At last he turned back to me.  
"I don't know all the reasons, why Gandalf visited your world, or why he made you a part of this story. I do know that he is very frightened of what is to come, as am I, or the Lord Elrond. You may know a tale; you may know many things which are possible for the near future that none of us do. But we have lived here for thousands of years. We have fought for this land; we have died for this land for millennia, always trying to keep the shadow at bay. And now, it seems that the final battle draws nigh… Everything may yet be saved, but just as well everything may be lost. It is a terrible risk, a terrible chance to take; but it is the only thing we can do, our only chance to end it. In this danger we need all the help we can get. If I – and others – caution you not to tell anything of what you know, that does not mean you must not use your knowledge or say something at the right time. But it is necessary that you understand how easily a misplaced word can destroy the destiny of a world in these dangerous times."

Glorfindel shook his head slightly and sighed. "I dare not tell you much. Only this: Gandalf needs you. A shadow lies on his road. He knows that. Elrond and I have seen it. – No, don't say anything. You have to realize how powerful words can be! Remember the Council!"  
Glorfindel's voice was low and insistent, those blue eyes hypnotic.  
"Gandalf needs you," he repeated. "He was adamant about you coming with the fellowship even though both, the Lord Elrond and I, did not want you to go. There is something only you can do for the fellowship. But what it is, I cannot say."  
"And you would not even if you could," I commented lightly, although my heart was racing, and my stomach felt giddy with fear. Glorfindel smiled at me. "No, I wouldn't. Come, Lothíriel, take heart! You are neither as bad a ranger or as bad a warrior as you think. After all, you made it to Rivendell, and thanks to you, there were only eight riders at the ford, and not nine."

My heart skipped a beat. I had completely forgotten about that. Eight, not nine riders had been at the ford. My jumping the rider with the torch and setting his cloak on flame had changed the story. I had changed the story as I knew it. I felt my hands shiver and put them on my thighs. My palms felt cold and sweaty even through the thick cloth of my jeans.

The story could be changed.  
I had already changed it.  
The story as I knew had already ceased to exist.  
Everything was uncertain.

**ooo**

After a time, my frantic heartbeat slowed down again, as I tried to gather all my courage. Whatever end this story would have, it was now my story, too. I was here. I was in it, whether I wanted it or not. And I had wanted it. I had gotten exactly what I had asked for. I loved being here. I loved this world, the rawness and wildness of Middle-earth. And I liked, admired or loved more people of Middle-earth than I had ever had feelings for on earth; and the feelings I had were not stupid crushes or family ties, but feelings bred by adversity, grown strong in the face of enemies, not by coping with trivial exams or silly arguments.  
I breathed easier and grew once more aware of the beauty of the valley around me.

"It's very beautiful, this valley," I said softly. "I cannot imagine how you can simply leave it behind." Glorfindel looked up, startled. I was astonished to see something like pain in his eyes. "You don't want to leave?" I asked. "But I thought, Aman…" I trailed off, not knowing what to say. Glorfindel gave me a melancholy smile. "Aman calls us back, yes. But this, this –" He gestured at the valley and the beautiful buildings of Rivendell climbing up the slopes of the mountains on either side of the Bruinen. "This is the home of my heart. I have fought many centuries to protect it, and Middle-earth, and all its peoples."  
"And yet you will leave."  
"I will leave," Glorfindel agreed. He looked at the uppermost part of the buildings, which made up the palaces of Imladris, where Elrond lived.  
"Because you love him," I blurted out. Glorfindel raised his eyebrows at me, and I blushed with shame at once again having spoken without thinking about it. But Glorfindel was not angry; he just smiled at me somewhat wryly.  
"You are very perceptive for a mortal, Lothíriel. I do not love him in any romantic fashion."  
"I had not wanted to imply…"  
"I know you did not." Glorfindel's eyes grew dark, gazing to the windows high above us, and then he continued, "But you are right. I do love him; he is my friend, he is my leader and my lord. I will follow him wherever he goes, however dark the road he takes."

"But be that as it may," Glorfindel went on, "we should use the time we have on our hands to improve your skills."  
"My skills?" I asked, confused. It was difficult to turn my attention back to the conversation.  
"Yes," Glorfindel said patiently. "If you go with the nine walkers, you will have to know hilt from blade of a sword. We cannot turn you into a warrior in two months, but we can at least try and reduce the risk you pose for your companions."  
I was not sure if I liked the sound of that. But he was very obviously right, so I did not offer any resistance.

**ooo**

In the following days I was simply too tired to think or worry about anything at all.  
Glorfindel woke me at sunrise. Then he made me practice shielding my mind for an hour. After that I felt completely wrung out, mind and body exhausted. He made me build my mental wall one brick at a time, and then he took it apart. One brick at a time.  
I would regret it later that I never in all that time asked if anyone bothered to help Boromir with the same thing. I was so busy I never even thought about the son of the steward of Gondor.

After a light breakfast, Glorfindel took me to the gymnasium of Rivendell. The gymnasium was a great hall with large yards around it, and it was used for exercising all kinds of weapons and keeping fit in general. Evidently even immortal elvish warriors had to practice.

I was presented with a light elvish sword. It was very beautiful and was called "Tínu", which is Sindarin for spark, small star. I was a very small star even with such an excellent elvish blade. But I improved vastly in those short weeks in Rivendell.  
I had the best teachers, too.

Elendil's sword had been reforged by the elvish smiths of Rivendell, the best smiths in Middle-earth. Even Gimli admitted that; after witnessing the forging of Andúril, he spent his days with the smiths, and would have spent the nights there as well if they had let him.  
The sword was very bright. When the sunlight hit the blade, it looked as if it had been dipped into red fire, but the moon made it glow with a cool white light. Its edge was razor-sharp, and the blade was covered with intricate runes and signs. There were seven stars etched between a crescent moon and a rayed sun, and at the edges of the blade flowed elvish runes imparting all the blessing on the blade the elves had left to give.

Aragorn gave it the name I remembered from the books. He dubbed it Andúril, Flame of the West, and his eyes blazed as brightly as the blade when he announced it.

But the sword weighed differently in his hand, and so he could be found in the gymnasium on a daily basis getting used to this legendary blade. He did not mind to test his sword against a beginner. The beginner did mind. My teachers did not bother with dull blades. They were certain that all of them were skilled enough not to hurt me in my clumsy attempts to hurt them. They were, but the knowledge of the sharpness of their blades worried me. Considerably.  
I knew a few things about fencing to start with. Some of my male friends on earth belonged to the kind of fraternities, which still do ritual fencing – including drawing blood in one well aimed gash at the head of the opponent. I had always liked the feel of a sword in my hand. And although I was neither strong enough nor fast enough to be dangerous to a skilled swordsman such as Aragorn, Elrohir, Elladan or Glorfindel, I was at lest not a complete failure.

They made me fight with everyone who was around including Arwen and Gily. Gily, whose real name was Gilylf, star-torch, was a great fighter, better than Arwen, although I would not ever want to come against Elrond's daughter in a real fight.  
This was a bit of a surprise to me, as there had not been much about elvish women and elvish society in the books.

The stories I knew were in so far correct, where elvish women were concerned, that there were not many of them still in Rivendell, or anywhere else in Middle-earth. Glorfindel explained it to me. As the ones to bring forth life from their wombs, the women were much more susceptible to the dark, chilling power of the shadow, and many of them had been forced to return to Aman to save their lives, or the lives of the children they carried. But elvish society as such knew no traditional roles for men or women. They did not bother with such trivialities.

There was little in the way of hierarchy or rank among the elves of Rivendell. Only very few elves were treated with special respect and deference; Elrond, of course, was treated like a king. He was the master of Imladris, the wisest and most powerful of the Eldar remaining in Middle-earth, and most elves were just as in awe of him as I was. But he acted not kingly or haughty at all; instead he was friendly and polite to everyone as far as I could tell. However, I had not seen much of the Lord of Rivendell after the Council. In these dark times there were not many dinners like the feast, which had been held in Frodo's honour. Most days Elrond spent in his study, working through the news about the movements of the enemy collected by the rangers and others in his service. He had dinner with his family and closest advisors, and only very seldom did he go the Hall of Fire, where stories were told, and songs were sung on most evenings.

Arwen was treasured by everyone. She was a symbol of hope for her people, a hint of how life could be in Aman without a shadow. Glorfindel and Erestor and a few others were treated referentially, but Elrond's sons were absolutely easy-going, and I sometimes came close to forgetting that Gily was an elf.

I also fought against Gimli, and I was battered black and blue afterwards. Being taller than the dwarf did not help. Then they set me up with more than one enemy at a time. Merry and Pippin had me on the ground in five minutes. I felt humbled.  
One day Gandalf joined in the fun and games. He was better even than Aragorn, and Aragorn was surpassing even Glorfindel's immortal skill.

In the afternoon, Glorfindel had me studying maps of Middle-earth and learning languages. He taught me the most commonly used elvish runes. He also insisted that I learn at least some phrases of the language of the Rohirrim and the variation of Westron used in Gondor. The last was very close to the Common tongue, but there were a few important phrases of politeness I did not know. What I loved most was that he agreed to teach me Sindarin. I knew a few words of Sindarin, of course. You cannot fall in love with the world of Middle-earth and not appreciate the beauty of this language.

I wondered why Glorfindel took so much time to help me, after all he was an important elf-lord, and I was only a mortal woman. When I asked him, he smiled and said that it was not the important elf-lord embarking on the darkest of quests but the mortal woman. And apart from that, I was a good student and he enjoyed himself. I blushed at that compliment and spent the rest of the day smiling at everyone.

In that manner the days went by. At the beginning of November the first snow came. Rivendell turned into a fortress of snow and ice, and the waterfall of the Bruinen froze into the most amazing, enormous icicles. December flew by, and I was too busy to miss the Christmas preparations to go with this season back on earth.

Winter solstice was a feast day for the elves, however. A sumptuous dinner was held in the Great Hall. Afterwards the tables were cleared away and there was dancing and music and songs until midnight. On midnight everyone went outside and on the square in front of the Great Hall a bonfire was lit, a symbol for the return of the sun. The elves and their guests took each other's hands and danced in a great circle around the fire.

When the fire burnt down, the wee hours of the night were almost gone, and I was very weary when I finally slipped into my bed. But judging from the laughter and the shouts in the room next to me, the hobbits were still in the mood for more celebrations.

**ooo**

The day after solstice, Elrond's sons returned from a secret quest. I don't know where they had been, or what kind of news they brought, but that very day preparations for our journey started in earnest. Food for travelling, warm sleeping bags and additional blankets, warm cloaks, warm clothes, shoes, knives, maps, and all kinds of other gear which is necessary for travelling on foot for long distances in all the worlds.

Gily helped me getting ready. I needed warmer clothes, since my gear had been selected for a few weeks of hiking and camping in the summer, and not a dangerous trek through high mountains in the winter. But even the elves could not improve on my sleeping bag and my shoes.

One thing, I did not ask for, bothered Gily immensely, however. And blushing and stuttering, she finally brought it up to me. Of course, elvish women did not have periods. They reabsorbed whatever they had done to get ready once a month to conceive a child. No monthlies, another difference between elves and humans. No acne, then, either, I thought, thinking back to the agonies of puberty full of envy.

"But I know that human women need special clothes for their special time every month. Why did you not ask for any? Are you pregnant? If you are, you have to tell me! You could not possibly go with them then; it would be much too dangerous for the child!"

I stared at Gily's worried face, for a moment completely bewildered. Then I burst out laughing. The elf looked completely flustered. When I had regained my composure, I answered her still grinning. "No, don't worry, I'm not pregnant. I have a hormone-implant in my arm which prevents me from getting pregnant and incidentally keeps away my periods."  
I explained.

The look of confusion on the elf's face deepened. Right. How do you explain something like 'Implanon' to an elf? I tried again. "It's like a charm. It's put under the skin, and it prevents pregnancy and periods for a time. If you are not yet ready to have children."  
I pulled up my sleeve and showed her my upper left arm. "Here, you can feel it."

Gingerly the elf touched the thin strip of plastic, which was palpable through the skin of my arm. She snatched her hand back and looked at me, her expression full of wonder. "How strange! Why would you do that?"

I inhaled deeply and pursed my lips. No casual sex among the elves, apparently. Well, I wasn't one for casual sex, either, but if I met an interesting man whom I trusted, and who like me… I was not averse to some carnal pleasures without the strings of marriage attached.

"Well," I said, hoping my elvish friend would not get the wrong impression of me. "You see, the society where I come from, we don't wait with the sex for marriage. We are more casual. With sex, not with love. If you fall in love, you may have sex without marriage. Some people have relationships for a long time and never marry at all. And most people want to control when they have children and with whom. So they have invented many ways to prevent getting pregnant by chance."

"Oh," Gily replied, understanding in her eyes. "I can understand that. We do that, too. Our children are only conceived when the time is right, according to the wishes of both parents. But we only have… how do you call it? 'Sex', with our spouses, or if there is no spouse, with the chosen partner. You have to understand, love and the act of love can bind us to each other. It is the gift of Varda, but it can also be a curse. If elves bind themselves in true love, they are bound for ever, body, heart, mind and soul. They literally share one life. If one dies, the other dies, too. Thus there can never be anything casual about love or 'sex' for us, even if we never find this one true love."

I listened intently. This was the explanation for the sadness in some of the love songs I had heard in the Hall of Fire and never really understood. I had understood that they were about lost love, and they had brought tears to my eyes even with my limited understanding of elvish culture. But only now I realized just how tragic those legendary romances were… Lúthien, Nimrodel, Elwing and Eärendil…

"Does not everyone find his or her true love?" I asked, curious.  
"No," Gily answered. "It is a special blessing Varda bestows on Her most beloved children. But we all pray for it, even though this blessing has become the curse of some of the best of us."

She would not say more about this, but she was relieved to know that I was all right and not pregnant.

**ooo**

It was a cold grey day at the end of December when we finally set out.  
A piercingly cold wind was blowing into the valley from the East. The dark firs and pines were bending to its force, and the leafless oaks, beeches and maple trees groaned under the gusts. Night was falling, the shadows of the early winter twilight lengthening. It was a gloomy atmosphere to start on such a dark and dangerous journey, but Elrond and Gandalf had decided that the cover of darkness was necessary for our safety.

The snow which had been piled high all through November and the first part of December had melted in a few warmer days following mid-winter's day. Only in the shadows of boulders and firs small heaps of gritty snow remained now. But the path above the Last Homely House, which would lead us into the wilderness of the Misty Mountains, was muddy, and there was little hope to hide the traces of two men, one woman, one elf, one dwarf, four hobbits, one wizard and one pony in this soft, sludgy ground.

We had been excellently outfitted for the journey, warm clothes, extra blankets, cleverly devised travelling gear and supplies of food and medicine. But we did not carry many weapons or armour.

Aragorn had Andúril and a dagger, and he was back in his shabby ranger clothes, wearing mostly green and brown to blend into the colours of the landscape. Boromir carried a long sword, too. It was even bigger than Andúril and had to be used with both hands, which suited the powerful frame of the Gondorian warrior. On his back he wore a round shield, and around his neck hung the silver horn he had held on his knees the day of the council. I had not seen much of him during the last few weeks. He was of solitary nature, or perhaps he simply did not feel at ease among the elves. I had not missed him, as I had not liked the way he had looked at me at the Council.

Gimli was the only one, who wore armour. He was clad in a mail shirt made of thousands of polished steel-rings. In his belt were a knife and a small axe, and on his back was a huge, double-edged war axe, whose name he would not tell.  
Legolas had a bow and a quiver, and a long white knife; it was longer than a dagger but not really a sword.

The hobbits had the blades given to them by Tom Bombadil, but Frodo wore Sting, Bilbo's old sword, which would glow blue when orcs were near. I hoped he also wore the mail shirt of Mithril I had read about, but I was too anxious to ask.

Gandalf, who was cloaked in grey, wore a long, splendid sword and a sharp elvish dagger. The sword was of dwarfish origin; it was called Glamdring and had been the bane of evil for millennia already. He also carried a long wooden staff. It appeared to be nothing but plain, grey wood, but it glowed slightly in the shadows, and Gandalf allowed no one else to touch it.  
I had Tínu, my one-handed elvish sword, and a new elvish dagger fashioned after the form of my sword.

Perhaps not enough weaponry to take on a host of enemies openly, I thought, as I surveyed the company waiting at the back gate of Imladris. But dangerous enough to make the casual raider think twice. And hopefully also the casual orc or two.

**ooo**

Sam was again in charge of the pony, which had improved wondrously during the short time in Rivendell. Its fur was glossy and it was well-fleshed and vigorous. Although Aragorn had not been happy about it, it had been decided to take it along as far as possible to carry additional blankets and food. We hoped that taking along a beast of burden would increase our speed because the scouting, although necessary, had already delayed our departure far too long.

I shivered and hopped from one foot to the other to get warm. We were waiting for Gandalf, who was still talking to Elrond in his study. What farewells we had to make, we had said in the Hall of Fire. Gily had given me a green silken scarf.  
She told me that it did not weigh anything at all, and every woman needed to have at least a little piece of finery along the way. Glorfindel gave me the dagger, which looked exactly like my sword and was razor-sharp, and etched with elvish blessings. I felt sudden tears in my eyes and would have embraced the elf, but he was distant and his blue eyes were dark as he offered me his hand. Now he was standing at the back of the yard in front of the back gates of Rivendell along with Gily, Erestor, Elrond's sons and two rangers who had stopped by Rivendell only two days ago. Arwen was nowhere in sight, and Aragorn kept away from the rest of the company, his head bent and his eyes sad. I wished I could say something comforting to him, but by now it had been well drilled into me, not to carelessly or needlessly use my knowledge. And comforting a friend probably did not qualify as a good cause.

Bilbo stood in the corner with the hobbits, shrunken with age and almost completely obscured by a thick cloak and a woollen balaclava. Sam was murmuring to the pony and going over the supplies for the hundredth time. Legolas and Gimli were trying to outdo each other in stoically waiting: standing straight and unblinking.

Finally Elrond and Gandalf appeared.  
The Lord of Rivendell raised his arms. All of the company turned to him, listening to his last blessing and advice. "You set out for the darkest of countries, and many dangers may befall you. Your quest is to destroy the ring in the fiery chasm, where it was made. But this is an obligation laid only on the ring-bearer by his free choice. The others go with him as free companions to help him on his way. But no oath can bind you, save your heart. You should, however, not go further than the strength of your hearts reach, lest you betray yourself, the company and all of us. For in these dark times I cannot foresee what each of you may meet on the road."

"Faithless, who says farewell when the road is dark," Gimli muttered.

Elrond looked at him, his eyes stern. I winced. But Gimli was unconcerned about the foot in his mouth. "Maybe," Elrond agreed. "But to make those who have not yet seen the dark into oath breakers, would not serve our cause."  
"Yet sworn word might strengthen quaking hearts," Gimli objected.  
Elrond smiled sadly. "Strengthen it or break! Who can tell that now? However, I can tell you that every step of the way you go, you are accompanied by the blessing of Elves and Men and all the Free Folk of Middle-earth. Farewell and may the stars shine upon your faces!"  
"Good luck," Bilbo called out in his high, old voice, his teeth chattering with cold. "And, Frodo, I expect a full account when you get back. I don't suppose you could manage to keep a diary?" He answered his question himself, "Probably not. Oh, well, just come back and don't take too long. Goodbye!"

Taking this as the signal to leave, Gandalf took the lead and, walking next to Frodo, passed through the back-gates of Rivendell into the twilight of a cold December evening.

Boromir hesitated for a moment and then announced in his clipped, clear Gondorian accent.  
"Loud and clear this horn shall cry as it always did when I set forth, no matter how dark the road. Let it be the clearer and brighter now that the road is even darker! And let all foes of Gondor flee!" With that he put his horn to his lips and blew. A clear, bright brassy clarion sound emerged and echoed through the valley of Rivendell.

Elrond seemed to sigh at the sound, but he did not say anything. Boromir turned and followed Gandalf out of the gates. After him followed the hobbits and after them, Legolas and Gimli.  
Aragorn and I took up the rear.

From the shadows behind us I heard the whispered blessings and farewells of many others of Elrond's household who had come to see us go. As I turned to look back at them, I thought for a moment that I had caught a glimpse of Arwen, back in a corner of the courtyard, but when I looked again, only shadows remained.

But Glorfindel was easy to see. He stood on the threshold of the Last Homely House, and the lights of the many candles burning inside made his hair glow like a golden star.  
And as Aragorn and I passed through the gates of Rivendell, taking the path to the bridge across the Bruinen above Rivendell, I felt again the silky touch of the elf's thoughts.

_May the road rise to meet you,  
may the wind be always at your back,  
may the sun shine warm upon your face,  
may the rain fall soft upon your fields…_

Then we passed across the bridge and onto a long steep path to the high moors of the foothills of the Misty Mountains, and I could not hear, feel or see anyone or anything of Imladris anymore.

**ooo**

Back at Rivendell, Glorfindel remained standing in the doorway and looking out into the gathering darkness, long after the footfalls of the company had been lost in the winds sweeping down from the mountains.

Only when he felt the presence of his friend and lord next to him, he turned around.  
Elrond looked at his friend, perceptive as always in spite of his own concerns and sorrows connected with these farewells. "Her fate lies elsewhere, my friend," he said in a low voice.  
Glorfindel sighed, "I know."

But his blue eyes were dark when he returned to his rooms.

_…and until we meet again, may the One hold you in the hollow of His hand._

But Glorfindel never met Lothíriel again.


	13. Traveling

**13. Traveling**

We came to the Ford of Bruinen from a back way, as we had left Rivendell on a trail up on the heights of the moors to confuse any watchers. We did not cross the river again but turned southwards to walk on narrow trails among the foot hills of the Misty Mountains. The country was wild and rough. Aragorn and his fellow rangers believed that the enemy seldom took notice of this empty and desolate country. Only the people of Rivendell and the rangers knew the paths through this wilderness.

After we came down to the river, Aragorn devised a walking order. Legolas he appointed the rearguard because of his keen elvish eyes. Gandalf and Aragorn were to take the lead. Gandalf as the leader of our group and Aragorn because he knew the way. Behind Aragorn the hobbits would follow and then Boromir and Gimli. Sam was to take the pony and walk behind the man and the dwarf. I got to trudge behind them – once again back to weary feet and blisters. Two months in Rivendell had made my feet forget how twenty miles of walking a day feel. But Aragorn obviously expected this reaction. He provided me with his yellow, smelly salve in an unobserved moment. I was grateful beyond measure.

**ooo**

It was strange to walk with such a large and diverse group of people. The group dynamics in the fellowship were totally different from the small group which had travelled from Bree to Rivendell.

I had not spent much time with any of my companions in Rivendell, occupied with fencing and learning as I had been. I guessed that I had been kept away from the others on purpose until Gandalf, Aragorn and the powers that be in general trusted me to keep my mouth shut.

In Rivendell, the hobbits had kept much to themselves, apart from Sam. After his master had recovered and it had been decided that they would not turn back, Sam had followed around any elf who would have him and had stayed in the Hall of Fire until the last elf turned in every night. More even than Frodo's resilience and courage, it was Sam, who was a constant surprise to me. He had Bilbo's excellent memory for verse and stories. And by now I had noticed that he kept a very bright and perceptive mind hidden away behind his unassuming nature and his sometimes childlike innocence. I liked Sam best of all the hobbits, although he in turn did not really like me. He did not approve of a woman going about in trousers and out into the wilderness on her own.

I had also seen quite a lot of Aragorn, either fencing or in the company of Arwen, Glorfindel, Gily and several other elves.

I had fought Gimli once but apart from that, I had only met him once after the council on mid-winter's day. Legolas I had seen from a distance once or twice, watching him practice with his bow and then again at the winter's solstice.  
Boromir I had not seen at all until the day we left, and Gandalf had kept to Elrond's study most of the time.

In short, we did not know each other at all but had to get to know each other on the way, much as I had come to know the hobbits and Aragorn on our way from Bree to Rivendell.

**ooo**

We walked almost fourteen hours during the second night with only very short breaks every four hours or so. When Aragorn allowed us to get some sleep during the middle of the day, I felt as groggy and disoriented as if I was suffering from a massive jet lag, say Frankfurt to L.A. or at least Chicago. And I did not sleep well. My feet kept on walking in my sleep, walking, and walking and walking; when the watch – this time it was Gimli – roused us late in the afternoon for our one real meal a day, I felt even more tired than when I had crawled into my sleeping bag.

As soon as the shadows of twilight covered the hills, we set out again. Each step my feet seemed to become heavier and my back hurt in a steady, dull ache.

This set the rhythm for the next days. We walked as soon as dusk covered our steps and slept as soon as the sun rose high in the sky. But even if we slept hidden by a thicket of brambles, I imagined sharp inimical eyes gazing down at me and thus barely managed to doze. Our main meal was never enough to satisfy a hobbit; or a young woman I might add. Gandalf and Aragorn only seldom allowed us to light a fire, so our diet was pretty monotonous, way bread, dried fruits, cereal, hard cheese and dried meat. And the only thing that is good about dried meat is that you can chew it longer than the best chewing gum.

Sometimes we found blackberries or blueberries, but those only served to enhance our cereal and give me indigestion.

That was another thing Tolkien never wrote about. Aragorn told me off on the second day for slipping off into the bushes for certain necessities connected with the human digestive system. He told me that I should save that for when we made camp. I blushed furiously, but he explained it to me very matter-of-factly. They wanted to make it more difficult for any enemy to simply follow the stink of our leavings.

Each morning the first duty, when we made camp, was to dig a latrine. Each evening, before we struck camp, the last duty was to bury the latrine. Hopefully this would be enough to prevent anyone following our tracks by simply following his nose.

Though, after having to use the latrine after Gimli one day, I really doubted if we could ever succeed on that account. But even discounting the dwarf, two men, one woman, four hobbits, one wizard, one elf and one pony, which could not be convinced to save things for the camp site, produced enough feces and manure that you really only had to follow your nose to find us, one and all.

The next thing which happened thankfully did not happen to me. For once I did not make a fool of myself. Merry did. He used the wrong kind of leaves on his back end.  
Think nettles or poison ivy liberally applied to the sensitive skin of your rear end.  
I have to admit that I laughed, too. Luckily Aragorn's athelas salve worked on Merry's bottom as well as on my feet. Pure magic, that weed.

**ooo**

After three or four days my feet and my back got used to walking fourteen hours and fifteen to twenty miles a day. I was still desperately tired and freezing most of the time, but at least I managed to take in my surroundings again, and how my companions were doing.

We were hiking through a landscape of bleak hills at the foot of the Misty Mountains, which were slowly bending westwards. What had looked like a white spot of nothing much on the maps I had studied in Rivendell, in reality was a wilderness of rocks and deep valleys with icy, turbulent mountain streams. The paths we took were narrow and winding, and more than once I had trouble to negotiate a passage across an almost sheer face of rock dropping into a deep abyss swirling with the strong currents of a river running down from the glaciers.  
Legolas was most helpful. He could stand behind me, where no one else could have found a toe hold, and lead me forwards one step at a time. And he never sniggered but always kept a blank elvish face. I missed Glorfindel. And Gily.

Two weeks after we set out from Rivendell, the weather suddenly improved. The icy wind, which had continually blown from the East, turned during the night, and in the morning the sun came out. A pale and tired winter sun, but a real sun nevertheless. At the end of an endless night's march we reached a low ridge, where ancient holly-trees grew. They had massive grey-green trunks, which looked as if they had been carved from the rocks of the hills and not like wood at all. I had never seen holly grow like that. But their gleaming, dark green leaves and shining red berries cheered us up to no end; the first patches of colour after two weeks of grey all around us, day and night. Well, apart from Merry's bottom supposedly, but I had not been allowed to see it.

**ooo**

We were now very close to the mountains. Just to our left a high range of three individual peaks rose as high as the sky. Gandalf explained where we had come to Frodo, a few feet away from me. But I recalled Glorfindel's sombre face as he pointed out to me the peaks and the country at their feet. _"This was elvish country, long ago. Men call it Hollin. But to us it was Eregion, once, long ago."_

"I need no map," Gimli interrupted the wizard. He was gazing out before them, and his eyes gleamed with deep longing. "This is the home of my ancestors, where my fathers worked of old. The image of these mountains is preserved in many treasured heirlooms among the dwarves, be they made of metal or of stone, and kept alive in many songs and tales. They stand tall in our dreams: Baraz, Zirak, Shathûr."  
Gimli turned to me and pointed to each peak as he named the mountain. "I have seen them only once before and only from far away, but I know them, and I know their names because under them lies Khazad-dûm, the Dwarrowdelf. The black pit, or Moria, as the Elves call it."  
He gestured at the mountain on the left. "There is Barazinbar, the Redhorn."  
He pointed to an especially cleft and rugged looking mountain at the centre of the range. "And this is Caradhras, the cruel."

My stomach cramped at this name. I swallowed dryly, trying desperately to look unconcerned. I did not like heights. I did not like mountains. I did not like caves. Should I tell Gandalf about the Balrog, or did he know already that a dark threat was waiting for him to provide the final tempering to call forth the White Wizard?

My ears were filled with a rushing sound as Gimli explained about the other mountains.  
"And there behind are the Silvertine and Cloudyhead; the Elves call them Celebdil the White and Fanuidhol the Grey, but to the dwarves they are Zirkazigil and Bundushatûr. There a deep valley parts the Misty Mountains, Azanulbizar, the Dimril Dale, and the Elves call it Nanduhirion."

Somehow his explanation reminded me of Verdun, where innocent, round green hills are the only reminders of millions of dead soldiers of the First World War. I felt sick.  
Gandalf gave me a wry smile, but he turned to the hobbits and explained in a bright voice. "We are heading for the Dimril Dale, and then we will climb the pass called Redhorn Gate at the far side of Caradhras. If we manage that, we will come down the Dimrill Stair to the valley of the Dwarves. There lies the Mirrormere and the icy springs of the river Silverlode."  
At that Gimli chanted a verse in the strange growling tongue of the dwarves, but he repeated it for us in the common tongue, and there were tears in his eyes. "Dark is the water of Kheled-zâram and cold are the springs of Kibil-nala… I can hardly believe that I shall see them soon."

"And may you have joy of their sight, Gimli," Gandalf murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. "But be that as it may," the wizard continued, turning to us. "We have to get going, and we have to reach the secret woods and then the Great River, and then –" The secret woods, I thought. Lothlórien. And the river, Anduin.

"And then?" Merry asked. "Where do we go from there?"

"To the end of our journeys," Gandalf sighed. "But for now be glad that the first stage of our journey is over, and that we have safely returned to elvish country. Though it was long ago, the elvish blessing is not completely drained from this earth." He looked at the holly-trees, but his eyes were full of shadows, which had nothing to do with the darkness of these days.

Legolas had moved to touch the holly-trees. But he shook his head and instead placed his long fingers against a boulder whose even angles suggested that it had once, long ago, belonged to a building.  
"Elves dwelt here," he agreed in his strangely accented dark voice. "But they are strange to me. They are not my kin, not Silvan elves, but Noldor. There is no memory of them left in the grass or the trees. But the stones still grieve for them. _'Deep they delved us, fair they wrought us, high they builded us; but they are gone.'_ They are gone. They went to the Havens and were allowed to sail across the Sundering Seas long ago." There was an unmistakable tinge of bitterness to his voice.

In the shelter of the holly-trees and the blessing of the long departed elves, we dared to light a fire for the first time in many days. As Gandalf had indicated that we could rest the next day, we did not extinguish the fire as soon as we had eaten our dinner, but kept it burning lowly, using dry wood to keep the issuing smoke to a minimum. Everyone but Aragorn relaxed. The ranger however walked restlessly in the shadows of the trees at the edges of the dell.  
I watched him, trying to remember if anything had happened at this place. It was difficult to remember the details of the books. Sometimes I confused them with the movies, and this reality, if it stuck with anything I knew, went by the books.

Had something happened here?  
Or had the incident with the crows been only in the movies?  
And if something had happened here, could I, should I do something?

**ooo**

But when I finally made up my mind to talk to Gandalf about having a bad feeling about this place, Aragorn was already explaining what the matter with him was. "It's not the wind I miss. I am as happy to be warm as you are. But I have walked through the country of Hollin in many years and many seasons, and though there are no people living here anymore, there are many creatures at home in the wilderness, and especially many birds have always lived here. But now the country is completely silent for miles around. Neither bird nor beast dares to move. There seems to be an echo to our voices. It is strange and I don't really understand it."  
Gandalf looked at Aragorn, and his eyes were suddenly dark and serious. "Is it perchance only the surprise at seeing four hobbits and the rest of our motley company? Or is it something else? Something darker?"  
Aragorn seemed to listen intently, but then he shook his head, defeated. There were dark shadows under his eyes. If we had slept little on the road, Aragorn had slept less. "I just don't know, Gandalf. There is something in the air, something strange… A watchfulness, a fear, perhaps, that I do not know of this country."  
Gandalf sighed deeply. "We have to be more careful. One should always listen to a ranger, and especially if the ranger is Aragorn. Put out the fire and stop talking. Rest quietly. The enemy might be watching us."

Sam had the first watch, and my stomach filled with warm food for the first time in days I fell asleep at once. And I slept deeply, peacefully and without dreams until Pippin shook me awake. One look at the hobbit's face told me that something untoward had happened. Pippin gave me a quick, whispered account of the crows and crebain passing over our camp.  
Dismal prospects, especially for a hungry hobbit. A cold meal and setting out as soon as possible instead of a good night's rest. Sam was muttering some complaints to Frodo, but I was not close enough to hear what they were talking about. But the sturdy gardener would not be any happier about a cold meal than the youth, I thought.

**ooo**

We set out when the light of the winter sun had faded to a red glow reflected by the glaciers of Caradhras, and the first pinpricks of stars appeared in the swiftly darkening sky.  
Aragorn led us on a good path which was broader and much better kept than the last trails we had walked on, and so we made good speed, aided by the light of the full moon, which made the last fallen stones of buildings long vanished and gone gleam darkly among the shadows of the night. This was indeed a bleak and dismal country.

When dawn was already close at hand, a shadow passed over us. We all felt it, but only Frodo had the courage to ask what it had been, and Gandalf either did not know or did not want to explain about this new dread.

We walked on as soon as night fell after another uncomfortable, cold meal. The next two nights came and went uneventfully, with us steadily climbing a winding path up into the mountains. Uneventful: painfully gasping, putting one foot in front of the other, trying to ignore the light-footed dance of Legolas behind me, or the steady rhythm of Bill, the pony, and Sam in front of me, sleeping as peacefully as you can if your are almost frightened to death on a bed of sharp rocks, eating cold and awful food, hardly keeping it down. That kind of uneventful.

**ooo**

Aragorn and Gandalf had an argument about which way we should go. Aragorn did not want to go through Moria, Gandalf did. Did he know what was waiting for him there? Should I tell him? But every time I mustered my courage to talk to the wizard, he caught my eye and almost imperceptibly shook his head. I kept silent. I kept being worried out of my head. When Boromir had the nerve to add his suggestion of choosing the way around the Mountains, I wanted to scream at him.

He slightly redeemed himself in my eyes when he convinced Gandalf of having everyone carry some wood to save us from freezing to death high up the slopes of Caradhras.  
But in Boromir's eyes gleamed a strange, feverish fire. For the first time I asked myself if anyone had taken the time to talk to Boromir about the evil influence of the ring and shielding his mind. I took care not to stay too close to Frodo, although I would have liked to comfort him, and up until now I had been fine and noticed no evil power taking hold of my mind. But I did practice the visualizations Glorfindel had taught me every morning and every night, no matter how tired I was. The ring had scared me too much to be lazy about these precautions.

The next night, going was rough. In many places the road completely disappeared, at times it was blocked by fallen rocks and tumbled boulders. The wind had grown piercingly cold again. Ultimately we were caught on a narrow path between a sheer face of rock above us and a deep ravine filled with darkness below us. Legolas, by now used to my fear of heights, wordlessly extended his hand and led me on, one step at a time.

When we reached the top of the slope, snow started falling.

I knew what would happen. I could not change it, and I did not know if it would help anything to convince Gandalf and Aragorn to turn back early. But I would have loved to tell them to just leave me here in this peacefully falling snow, waiting for them to turn back.  
As I was trudging along, clinging to the elf's hand, I replayed variations of what I could tell them in my mind, all the time walking on, one weary, careful step at a time.  
After another two hours' worth of laborious climbing the snowstorm became too strong to continue, and Gandalf allowed us to rest for a bit. As if on cue, the snow stopped. I looked around at the thick heaps of snow all around us and sighed. The mountain really did not like us, whether stirred up by Saruman or not. The mountain would not let us pass. This path was closed to us.

The wind was singing in the clefts of the rocks above us and below us. "There are fell voices on the air," Boromir called out and drew his sword.  
"It may only be the wind," Aragorn objected, but his voice lacked any real conviction. "There are many things with little love for those of us walking on two legs in this world. And even if they are not in league with the enemy, they may be perilous to us."  
"Caradhras was always nicknamed the cruel," Gimli added, trying to brush clumps of ice out of his beard. "And that was before the enemy's time."  
"If we cannot defeat the enemy, it little profits that we know it's only a mountain," Gandalf muttered.  
"Is there nothing we can do?" I asked voicing what I saw in Pippin's frightened eyes.  
"We'll have to wait out this storm. Further on we have to get out into the open with no shelter at all from snow, stones or any other attack." Gandalf said.  
"And it won't help to turn back now, either," added Aragorn. "There was no place more sheltered than this cliff-wall."  
"Shelter!" Sam objected. "Then I'll call a wall and no roof a house from now on."  
He was right. But there was nothing we could do, and so we huddled together in the growing mounds of snow blown up all around us.

And much as Frodo's experience of the snow and the cold was described in the books, my teeth stopped chattering after a while, and I felt myself growing warm again. I fell into a blissful doze, my mind wandering back across leagues and leagues of dark no-man's-land to Rivendell, looking for Glorfindel. When I entered his study at last, I was disturbed to find him deep in thought, his eyes dark and sad. I reached out to touch him, but when he looked up, he was not at all glad to see me. _Get back at once_, he seemed to shout at me. _Tell them that this will be the end of the hobbits and yours, too. Go! Go now or it will be too late!_  
I came to gasping and sputtering, acutely aware of the cold again, shivering uncontrollably, my teeth chattering so hard that I was afraid I'd break a filling.

"Aragorn," I whispered. "Gandalf." The wizard and the ranger turned to me, their eyes full of worry, and their lips blue with cold. "Glorfindel. He says to turn back. It will be the death of the hobbits. And I can't make it either."  
"At least make a fire," Boromir suggested. "You have to do something."  
Gandalf sighed and passed around a small bottle made of leather. "One swallow each," he cautioned. "It's_ miruvor_, the cordial of Imladris, a most precious draught. It was Elrond's parting present to me. Pass it around."  
Whatever it was, it burned like fire, chasing away the cold and the exhaustion within moments. But the storm grew even worse. The mountain seemed to be determined to kill us once and for all.  
"Make a fire," Boromir implored Gandalf and Aragorn. "Please! Look at the little folk and the young lady! They won't live to see the dawn if you don't keep them warmer."

That was the first time Boromir acknowledged my existence at all. Up until now he had not spoken to me at all. I did not feel all that bad with the Miruvor inside, but as I looked at the hobbits, I knew that Boromir was right; and I hoped that I did not look like the hobbits because if I did, I might not last the night either. The hobbits were hunched together, their faces and hands blue with cold, their eyelids drooping, they could barely keep themselves upright.

I looked down at my hands, and found that they had turned a lovely turquoise shade. I had never thought to ask about gloves, I mused. I had not felt my feet in several hours. I hoped that I had not lost a toe or two. I had seen such things on TV; it had looked ugly and painful even on TV and thinking about experiencing that kind of thing myself in real life in the foreseeable future , did not make the thought any prettier. I sighed, and my breath seemed to freeze in the air. All my foreknowledge did not help in this battle against the mountain and the forces of nature.  
I raised my head and looked at Gandalf. The wizard looked tired. When he noticed that I was looking at him, he raised his eyebrows questioningly. Was he asking me if the fire was necessary or a great risk? I shrugged and tried to smile, but that hurt my lips, which were raw from breathing into my scarf.

"Let's make a fire," Gandalf said at last.

We built a great heap from the wood we had been carrying, but the ground and the wood were too wet; it was obvious that neither man nor elf could get a fire started under these conditions. Gandalf stared at the wet wood for a long moment, and then he bent down and picked up a branch. In a voice more powerful than his appearance as an old man would allow normally, he called out: "Naur an edraith ammen!"

Gandalf thrust both his staff and a branch into our heap of wood. Green and blue flames leapt up around the staff and the wood caught fire at once. When Gandalf removed the staff from the fire, it was unscathed. "If anyone has been watching us, I at least am revealed to them now," he muttered, his voice full of fatigue. "I have written _Gandalf is here_ in signs that all can read from Rivendell to the mouths of Anduin."

But we were too tired and too frozen to care for the added threat of watching eyes. We crowded around the fire eagerly, and within minutes the hobbits and I were groaning with the pain of life returning to almost frozen extremities. Aragorn once again produced his yellow salve and made everyone rub it into their feet and hands. Pure bliss! Warm feet, warm hands, warm me!

**ooo**

I must have dozed in my corner because when I looked up again, the sky was bright with the coming dawn, and the snowfall had slowed down to leisurely drifting single great flakes now and then.

"Dawn is not far now," Aragorn said.  
"If any dawn can get through these clouds," commented Gimli.  
Boromir stepped up to them. "I think the snow is growing less. And the wind has calmed down."

We would get out of here. I sighed softly. We would get out of here to go to Moria. Should I tell Gandalf what would happen? The old wizard sat close to Frodo, who in turn was staring with big frightened eyes into the brightening sky.  
Gandalf sat hunched and tired, and in his hands he was turning and turning his unlit pipe.  
It was necessary that he fell. He had to fall to be able to return as the White. Middle-earth would need the power of the White Wizard.  
If I warned him, more harm than good might come of it.  
But I knew that Aragorn would never forgive me if he realized that my knowledge might have prevented the disaster.

As I looked up, I realized that dawn had come indeed. The grey landscape of the day before had vanished. I was looking at a silent world of snow. Rocks and gnarled trees had turned into beautiful and alien forms of white domes and cupolas, strange figures and sculptures shaped by the snow. There was no noise at all; everything was muffled and quiet in this winter wonderland. There was no sun, and the clouds were low and heavy with the promise of even more snow.

Gimli pulled himself to his feet. The snow at the edge of our campsite reached easily up to his chest. "Caradhras has not forgiven us. Those clouds are full of snow and other nasty surprises, which he will throw at us if we don't disappear in a hurry."

There was no other option. We had to turn back. But this was easier said than done. Only a few feet away from the ashes and the sludge of our campsite the snow was blown into snowdrifts almost as high as Aragorn.

"Perhaps you could melt the snow with the fire of your staff," Legolas suggested to Gandalf. The wizard snorted. "Perhaps you could fly over the mountain and catch a southern sun for us. I need something to work my magic on. I have no power over thin air."

Boromir listened to the exchange with growing impatience. "If splendid minds are at a loss, bodily strength has to prevail! Look, you can still see the faint outlines of the path we came up on yesterday going around that rock down there. The strongest of us will have to shove the snow aside, and the little folk and ladies may follow."  
"I'm not a lady," Gimli grumbled. But he winked at me, and I was relieved that he, at least, had no problem with my presence.

Without further comment, Boromir turned and started in on the snow. He was half a head smaller than Aragorn but more powerfully built. Working together, the men were soon forcing a tunnel through the snowdrifts, although they sometimes seemed to be almost drowning in the masses of snow all around them.

Legolas watched them for a while, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Then he turned to me and grinned outright. "The strongest to seek the way? And little folk and ladies to follow? Is that what you say-" he called out after Boromir. "Well, I say: a ploughman may plough, and a fish might swim, but running lightly on sand or grass, or over snow: that's what an elf is for."

He gave me a small bow and then turned and leapt onto the top of the snowdrift next to the camp. He wore not boots, only light leather shoes, and although he was tall and in spite of his slender built must have weighed more than a hobbit, he left almost no imprint in the snow. He waved at Gandalf. "Farewell," he called out. "I am off to find the sun!"

Then Legolas turned around and ran away, his steps as surefooted as if he was running on firm ground and not on the slippery surface of snowdrifts.

**ooo**

The rest of us could do nothing but wait for the return of either the men or the elf. We sat huddled together, silent, and increasingly miserable in these cold and damp surroundings.  
After a long moment Gandalf rose from the ground and walked along the edge of the campsite, leaning against the rock face at the far end of the cliff shelter. This might be an opportunity to talk to the wizard. I got to my feet and walked over to Gandalf. He glanced at me but did not say anything.

"I hope I'm not bothering you," said I hesitantly.  
"Oh, you do, all of you, all the time; but go ahead," Gandalf said, somewhat grouchy.  
"We will go the other way now, won't we?" I asked. "The dark way?"  
He turned and looked at me, and his eyes were dark with the knowledge of many things and many possible paths into the future. He looked weary and old.  
"Yes," he said after a moment's silence. "We will take the way of the shadow. You don't have to worry about telling me. I know a shadow lies on my road. And it will not make it easier if I know which form the shadow will take. This is a trial I have to pass on my own." He paused for a moment.  
Then he smiled at me. "You keep up well. Don't let yourself be fooled by Boromir's behaviour. He is lonely in this fellowship. He wants to talk to you. But be careful. You know why."

I gulped nervously and nodded. The ring. I had felt the presence of the ring again during the night, like an insane whisper somewhere at the edge of my mind. I would have to pay more attention to my shielding.

At that moment, Legolas came running up along the edge of the path laboriously carved into the snow by Boromir and Aragorn.

"Well," the elf called out to us. "The sun I could not bring; she is walking blue fields to the South, and a little wreath of snow on Redhorn's shoulders does not trouble her. But I could assuage the troubles and toils of our strong men. They were in despair, down around the bend, and almost buried in the greatest snowdrift of all. I gladly told them that the drift was not much more than a wall. Behind it the snow suddenly grows less, and only a little way farther down it is only a thin white coverlet to cool a hobbit's feet and delight the eyes of a lady."  
"See," Gimli grumbled. "I told you so. It's this mountain. Caradhras does not love Dwarves and Elves. He wants to catch us and keep us."  
"But he made a mistake," Boromir interrupted, breathing heavily, his cheeks red, covered in snow from his head to his feet. "Your mountain has discounted the strength of men too easily. And you have strong men with you, luckily. Though a few spades would perhaps have served you even better. We have broken through that wall of snow down yonder, so that those of you not as swift-footed as the elf may rejoice."  
"But it's still a lot of snow," Pippin objected, his voice full of apprehension. And indeed, even where the men had made a path through the snow, it was still as high as my knees, reaching easily up to the hips of the hobbits. "How are we to get down there on our own?"  
"Not on your own," Boromir said. "Although I am tired, I have some strength left yet, and Aragorn, too. We will carry you." He looked at me, his eyes dark with implications.  
"Nope, but thanks," I said lightly and smiled at him. "Not that I don't like to be carried by strong men, but I think I'm big enough to walk down there on my own."  
The strong man smiled back at me, for the first time really looking at me. "I've never implied anything else." Then he bent down and let Pippin climb on his back. "Cling to my back," he advised. "I will need my arms down there."

Aragorn carried Merry, and I followed just behind. It was tiring to shuffle through the knee-deep snow, but in the light of the day, without storm and pursuit, it was almost fun.  
The great snowdrift which had made Aragorn and Boromir almost give up was as high as two men on top of each other. I had never seen so much snow in my life! It looked like a fortress made of snow, with only a small gate at the bottom. On earth I would have taken out my camera and snapped a picture at once. Here, I just stopped for a moment, tilting back my head and tried to fix the sight in my memory. Then I passed the gate of snow, and indeed, on the other side there was almost no snow at all on the ground, dwindling from high as the sky to nothing within a few feet.

Putting down Merry and Pippin, the men went back to carry down Sam and Frodo, this time followed by Gandalf, who was leading the pony, with Gimli perched precariously on its back. Legolas followed as rearguard.

As soon as all of the company had reached the far side of the enormous snowdrift, the drift collapsed, showering all of us with snow. Within seconds we looked like a bunch of runaway snowmen – snowwoman? Snowhobbits?

Gimli came up sputtering, a definitely irritated snowdwarf. "That's enough, you evil old mountain! We are going; we're away as quickly as we can!"

It was already almost noon when we started on the path down into the valley again. Going down was far easier than climbing up, but we were tired to the bones. Especially Frodo looked dead on his feet.

Suddenly Aragorn and Gandalf, who were leading our group again, halted and looked down into the valley, their faces worried.

"What is it?" I asked apprehensively.

Aragorn pointed down. There were many small black specks whirling in the air.  
"The birds are back," he said.

Gandalf sighed heavily. "There's nothing we can do. We have to go down at once. We will not last another night up on Caradhras. And maybe they don't have anything to do with us at all." But he did not sound convinced.

**ooo**

We continued down on the narrow, winding path we had climbed with so much difficulty yesterday. A strong wind was blowing down from the white peak which loomed menacingly above us. The wind sighed and sang in the rocks as if the mountain was laughing, and it pushed at our backs incessantly, shoving us down the path, back into the valley.  
Down we go, down we go, I thought, my mind picking up the rhythm of my steps. Down we go, down we go and then into Moria.  
I shivered, but not from the cold.


	14. Moria

**14. Moria**

It was growing dark fast when we made camp for the night.  
Gandalf doled out another swallow of _miruvor_, but this time the cordial of Imladris did not do much to dispel my apprehension, even if it warmed me and woke me up some. I was tired and frightened. I did not want to go to Moria. I knew what was going to happen. What was worse, I knew I must not try to prevent it. It was necessary.I forced myself to eat some dried fruit and cheese. I drank half a bottle of water. It was a silent meal all around; everyone was exhausted and occupied with his own fears. 

After the meal, Gandalf called for a council. I would have liked nothing so much than to say, look, guys, there obviously is only one way left to take, leave them to the council and get into my sleeping bag. I sighed softly. I sat down cross-legged between Legolas and Aragorn. The fire was warm and comforting. Gandalf's voice roused me out of my doze.  
"We have to decide where to go from here. One thing is clear, however, we_ have_ to rest for the night. The scramble up and down the pass has tired everyone."

Not everyone, I thought. Legolas is still pretty fit. I yawned. But it's easier to keep going all night if you can sleep with your eyes open while walking.

The issue was, of course, whether to through Moria or to the Gap of Rohan. Gandalf and Gimli wanted to go through Moria. Aragorn did not want to go through Moria. Boromir wanted to go to the Gap of Rohan. Legolas did not want to go through the mines. The hobbits were frightened either way.

"What do you think, Lothíriel?" Gandalf suddenly asked pointedly.

I jumped at being addressed individually. No one had ever asked my opinion on anything up until now. I blinked at him. Aragorn, on the other side of the fire, gave me a warning glance. I would not say 'let the ring bearer decide'. That was the meanest thing to do to burden someone who had no idea where we were going with the responsibility of the decision.  
While the discussion had been in full swing the wind had turned and had become stronger. Now it was hissing and howling among the rocks and trees of this desolate valley.

"Moria,"" I said. "How the wind howls!"

Gandalf inclined his head. Aragorn closed his eyes. He had apparently seen this decision coming. Suddenly the ranger tensed. In a fluid motion he jumped to his feet.  
"How the wind howls," he called out. "That is not the wind! It is wolves! The wargs have come!"  
Gandalf jumped to his feet, too. "Now we cannot wait for the morning. The hunt is up!"  
"How far is it to Moria?" Boromir asked.  
_"Some fifteen miles as the crow flies, and maybe twenty as the wolf runs"_, I muttered, for some reason remembering the lines from the book, rolling my sleeping bag back up. No sleep tonight either.  
"There is a door south-west of Caradhras," Gandalf said. "Some fifteen miles as the crow flies, and maybe twenty as the wolf runs."  
Legolas threw me a strange look. Rats! Had I said that out loud and he had heard me?  
Trust Lothíriel to make a mess of things.

**ooo**

Within minutes we were ready to leave. Boromir did not make any wise-crack comments about hearing wolves being worse than fearing orcs. Sam was much too frightened himself to say anything reassuring to Pippin. 

After a few miles hastening in the general direction of the gates, we came upon a small hill crowned with a circle made of gnarled old trees and huge fallen boulders. It looked almost like an ancient sacrificial site. Or at least that would have been my impression had I still been on earth. Where on earth Germanic priests of ages long gone and forgotten would have sacrificed a virgin to their heathen gods, we got a big fire going to keep away the wolves. I really hoped that tonight we would not end up being the sacrifice. With no heathen gods to implore to, it would be such a waste of nice, plump (well, not really, not anymore) sacrifices. And I was not a virgin, anyway.

If you are scared out of your wits, you come up with the strangest ideas.  
I kept telling myself – inside my mind this time – that I did not have to worry; after all I knew we would get into and out of Moria, or at least, I knew that the rest of the fellowship would. As I was not in the stories, I did not know what would happen to me after all. Oh, sweet logic! Why did my brain pick this moment of all possible moments to remind me that my fate was far from sealed?

Bill the pony was just as scared as I was. He stood as close to the fire as he dared, sweating and tossing his head. Sam was crouching next to him, looking wide-eyed into the darkness. Suddenly the hobbit jumped back and almost fell into the fire, giving a small scream. I looked at the spot where he had been looking, and my heart skipped a beat.  
The darkness had yellow, evil eyes.

We formed a ring around the fire without being told; in one hand our weapon of choice, in the other a long branch of dry wood, which could be set on fire quickly.  
There were eyes gleaming in the darkness all around the hill.  
In a gap between boulders and trees a huge shape was advancing, growling menacingly.  
My sympathy with wolves was dwindling rapidly.

**ooo**

Gandalf strode forward, holding his staff in one hand, Glamdring in the other. He seemed much taller than he looked during the daytime, deadly and dangerous, just as menacing as the wolf or warg out there in the darkness. 

"Listen, hound of Sauron!" Gandalf cried, his voice hoarse, but commanding. "Gandalf is here! Fly, if you value your foul skin, or I will shrivel you from tail to snout!"

The wolf snarled, and all around the hill howling rose up, sounding almost like insane laughter.

The wolf leapt in attack.  
The wolf stopped mid-jump.  
The wolf jerked back.  
The wolf fell down, pierced through the throat by a long elvish arrow.

I had not even seen Legolas string his bow.  
Suddenly the yellow eyes in the darkness were gone.  
The darkness was eerily silent; the only sound the moaning of the wind.  
My heart was beating like a drum, my throat dry.  
What had happened now?

When nothing happened for twenty minutes, we settled back down around the fire.  
We kept our eyes away from the fire, watching the darkness.  
The hours went by and nothing happened.

We grew very tired. The hobbits were dozing, and I felt my lids drooping, too.  
In the western sky the thin, pale moon was setting, its light barely piercing the thick clouds.  
I sighed. Perhaps the wolves had gone, afraid of Gandalf's power. Smart wolves.  
Just then a storm of howling broke out all around us, and suddenly the night was full of leaping grey shadows.

I had barely the time to get my sword out of its scabbard. A huge grey shape was falling from the sky towards me. I lunged wildly and felt as if my arm was wrenched from the shoulder.

I screamed with the pain. But the wolf screamed louder and ran away.  
I grasped the hilt of my sword with both hands, ignoring the pain in my shoulder.  
I planted my feet in a secure stance.  
I looked into the darkness and waited for the next attack.  
I did not have to wait long.  
A huge snarling wolf leapt out of the darkness, going for my throat.  
But this time I had been ready.  
My stance held.  
I was sprayed with a shower of burning hot blood.  
The wolf, its throat cut, disappeared into the night.  
The foul metallic smell of blood made me gag.

Suddenly I found myself caught between two large wolves, and I could have sworn they nodded to each other before they jumped.  
I had a second to think – I can't do this – then I was dragged away from the fire, my sword stuck in the ribs of the first wolf. Colliding with the trunk of a tree, I screamed in terror.  
I felt something pass my head with a swishing sound, and then I hit the ground, hard.  
Without thinking, my body remembering the endless drills in Rivendell's gymnasium, even if I did not, I came back to my feet and wrenched my sword out of the dead body of the wolf. A well aimed arrow was sticking out of its heart.

I ran back to the fire, and not a moment too soon. Gandalf shouted a command, and the trees all around the hill burst into flame. The tree I had been under literally exploded.

The wolves had enough and fled.

**ooo**

I collapsed next to the fire, the last reserves of strength I had build up in the endless exercises in Rivendell and the hard marches to Caradhras utterly spent. 

"You fought well," someone said. I looked up, and had trouble to focus my eyes for a moment. I was so tired that I was beginning to see double. Boromir.  
"Thanks," I croaked.  
"You don't have much style," he added. "And you need more strength. But your blows were killing blows. Where did you learn to fight like that?"  
"Rivendell. Glorfindel said I had to be able to defend myself if I was to go with the fellowship." I blinked my eyes against the grogginess.  
Boromir looked slightly dishevelled, and there was a gash across his right cheek that was still bleeding slightly. Other than that he looked awake and vigorous. Now he raised his eyebrows in amazement. "You learned all that in Rivendell? But you have been there only a little more than two months! You have real talent, for a woman."  
Right. For a woman. I forced a smile. After all, this was the nicest thing he had ever said to me. "Thanks."

Boromir gave me a curt nod, then rose to his feet and walked over to Aragorn. I could not hear what he said to Aragorn, but the ranger came to me shortly afterwards and asked if I was hurt in any way. It turned out that my shoulder was only strained, no ligaments torn or anything serious. Aragorn produced another small box of athelas salve. Did I mention that I love athelas? It really is the most wonderful plant that ever grew in Middle-earth, or anywhere else.

**ooo**

Merry woke me after sunrise. I could not remember falling asleep. The hobbit sported a black eye. Trust Merry to be in the thick of it. When got to my feet, I could not suppress a yelp of pain. Each step a searing pain ran from my shoulder to the soles of my feet.  
The hobbits moved as if they had a good night's rest. Hobbits are much hardier than humans. Much hardier than I am, anyway. Sam had a nasty scratch across his chin.  
But all in all, we could count ourselves lucky. One strained shoulder, two scratches and one black eye, and all casualties on the wolves' side. 

Well, at least they should have been, but where the carcasses of the wolves should have been, we only found a few scattered arrows.

"It is as I feared," Gandalf said. "Those were wargs, werewolves. No ordinary wolves hunting for food in the wilderness would have attacked like that."

"And they will be back tonight," Aragorn added.

Cheers! I thought. This should decide the interrupted council of last night, shouldn't it?

It did.

**ooo**

The last vestiges of the night's storm had dissipated, leaving a surprisingly blue sky, and a soft spring sun, which was almost warm. The country we walked through in the morning was barren and desolate, a desert of red stones and thorn bushes, now and again clumps of dry brown grass and from time to time scrawny mountain oaks. There was no sign of anything alive, not even birds seemed to live here. 

At last we came upon a small path on the banks of a dry riverbed. The riverbed was broad and shallow; once upon a time it must have held a strong river. Now only a tired, brown rivulet remained, trickling slowly down the rocks in the middle of the riverbed.  
We did not dare to rest for longer than twenty minutes at noon, barely enough time to eat something. Haste was on our minds, and the remembered echo of foul, howling voices in the night drove us on.

At the remains of some great waterfalls, broad steps had been carved into the red rock of the ground. I was out of breath and sweaty when I finally reached the top of the stairs. From there I had a beautiful view at a dark, unmoving surface of a lake. A soft breeze carried the putrid smell of dead things rotting in the water up to us. Behind the lake rose a cliff side that was unnaturally smooth.

"These are the walls of Moria," Gandalf said unnecessarily.

**ooo**

Down the slope of the hill we went, up the next hill and down again, and we were at the edge of the lake. The stink of decay was thicker close up. The water looked not so much like water than like some kind of gross, black slime.  
We walked around the lake, keeping as far away from the water as possible. White branches were lying at the edge of the water. I took a closer look and gulped with sudden nausea.  
Bones, not branches.  
This was worse than the movies.  
No bones in the movies.  
No smell in the movies.  
No wolves in the movies. 

To get to the gates we had to wade through a disgusting, stagnant, stinking rivulet of the lake, which extended right to the cliffs. Thank god that I wasn't a hobbit. I shuddered at the thought of having to walk through this kind of water with bare feet.  
Neatly caught between the cliffs and the disgusting lake, our company halted.  
I slumped down on a boulder and looked back at the way we had come.

The light of the day was waning quickly. Already the pale crescent of the moon had risen, casting a ray of pale light across the lake. The surface of the lake was moving in lazy rolling rings, and at its centre a few yellow bubbles rose to the surface. Why the hell had Tolkien to be correct about all the gruesome details, I thought irritably.

I turned around again to see what the others were doing. Gandalf was pointing his staff at the rock face and was murmuring a few words in his secret language. Silver lines appeared as if on cue. Gandalf translated the runes and began trying out his opening words.  
And here we go, I thought. I knew what would happen. The minutes dragged on. The doors did not open. We divided up the baggage the pony had been carrying between us, leaving a bundle of extra blankets and winter clothes to be eaten by the wolves. Sam hid his face in the mane of the pony, letting no one see his tears.

I wished, I could comfort him.

The doors did not move.

**ooo**

My shoulder started to really hurt again. The pain did not improve my temper.  
If I asked a simple question, I would not really be telling something I could not possibly know, wouldn't I? 

I looked back across the lake apprehensively. The wolves would return soon. And the watcher in the water would wake any moment now. I walked over to where Gandalf was sitting. He glared at me, daring me to make another stupid remark, such as Pippin and Boromir had come up with.

"Do you think you translated the runes correctly?" I asked the wizard point-blank.  
"I thought 'pedo' means 'say' and not 'speak'."

Gandalf opened his mouth for an angry reply, and then closed it again. He nodded at me and rose swiftly to his feet. He walked over to the doors.

_"Mellon,"_ he said in a clear voice.

The doors opened.

A shared sigh of relief went up all around. We shouldered our repacked, heavier back packs. The pony remained standing at the edge of the water, looking lost and uncomprehending.  
Sam's eyes were red. I felt tears stinging in my own eyes, as I watched Gandalf warding and blessing the pony.

What the hell, I thought suddenly and walked quickly over to Sam. "Don't ask how I know it," I whispered into the hobbit's ear. "But I promise you will see Bill again. Nothing will happen to him."

Sam's eyes widened; he gulped briefly, but he did not turn his head.

Once again I felt the penetrating gaze of Legolas on me. I raised my head and glared at the Elf defiantly. I was fed up with this quest for the day.

We walked into the dark opening of the gates. We had not yet reached the top of the stair, when something dark rose up from the water and large, fingered tentacles were groping along the bottom of the stairs, trying in vain to reach us. From the outside we heard a panicked neighing and then the sound of hooves galloping away.

With no prey within reach, the tentacles gripped the huge doors and slammed them shut behind us. With a shattering noise, which reverberated through the ground like a small earthquake, the doors were shut, and all light was lost to us.

The trap was set and the mice on their way.

**ooo**

"Poor Bill," Sam whispered next to me. "Wolves and snakes."  
After a short pause he added,"Thank you, Miss,", in a very low voice. I smiled at him. At least Sam felt better, if only momentarily. 

"Whatever was that in the water?" Frodo asked, his voice shaking.  
"I don't know," Gandalf answered. "But there are older and fouler things than Orcs in the deep places of the world."

My stomach lurched sickly. Indeed, I thought. I felt sick.

Gandalf raised his staff, and the grey wood began to radiate with a white, pure light. In his right he carried his sword, which gleamed faintly in the light of the staff.  
From behind the doors a broad and fairly undamaged stairway rose into the darkness.  
Gandalf took the lead, lighting the way. Gimli was close behind him, his eyes gleaming with eagerness. After Gimli followed Frodo, who had also drawn his sword. Both blades, I recalled, would turn blue in the vicinity of orcs. Legolas and Aragorn made up the rearguard and I walked with the hobbits and Boromir in the middle of our group.

At the top of the stairs an arched passageway led on into impenetrable darkness.  
There we halted briefly, catching our breaths, and Gandalf gave us another small sip of miruvor. "Be careful with the water," Gandalf cautioned, when he noticed Pippin drinking greedily. "There is no wholesome water left in these mines. If all goes well, we should reach the other side in three or four days. Our water has to last until then."

Although all of us were very tired, and the darkness of the mines even subdued the indefatigable elf, we were more than willing to keep going for a few hours. Only Gimli felt at home in this gloom and was unfazed by the weight of the mountain above our heads.  
Gandalf chose a tunnel for us to enter without hesitation.

The passage twisted a couple of times and then straightened out, all the time leading us down. When the ground became level again, the air had grown stuffy and hot.  
For the first time since we had left Rivendell, I felt warm. I was not able to enjoy the feeling.  
Although the tunnel was winding and changing its direction again and again, and although we passed many dark openings of other tunnels, some wide, some narrow, leading away into an even thicker darkness, Gandalf pursued his course unerringly.

After some time of walking along without any disturbance, my spirits rose slightly.

Then we came to the first crack, which ran across the entire width of the floor.

It was not really wide, perhaps one meter or three feet and a few inches, give or take, but it dropped into a fathomless abyss.

We had to jump.

And I, just as Sam, had forgotten about the ropes.

Did I mention that I am scared of heights?

I took me about five minutes to gather enough courage to jump across the fissure.  
I staggered, and did not object when Boromir caught my arm to steady me. "Thanks. I am frightened silly of heights."  
"I am afraid of spiders," the tall warrior said, glancing at the low uneven ceiling uneasily.

We did not have to go far to reach the next crack in the floor. This one was wider, and I felt all shivery, as I took a run to jump across it. I felt thoroughly sick by now.  
How I envied the elf, who seemed to fly across those gaps.

Please, I prayed silently, don't let the bridge be like the one in the movies. Please. Pretty please.

Later in the afternoon I almost died.

We reached a spot where there were two chasms only a few feet away from each other. The first was small, again about three feet or so. The second was almost two metres wide, not quite the seven feet I remembered from the book, but close enough. And there was not enough room to take it at a run. I had to jump it cold. It did not help that Pippin needed several minutes and a lot of encouragement to try the jump. He swayed precariously for a moment, when he landed on the other side.

I swallowed dryly, my hands shaking and clammy with sweat. I felt tears burning in my eyes.  
I can't make it, I thought wildly. This is why I'm not in the story. _I never made it out of Moria!_

"We will jump together," someone said to me softly. I looked up, my stomach lurching sickly. Boromir smiled at me encouragingly. "You take my hand." He just took my left hand.  
"Now we go as far back as possible. Look straight ahead, at Gandalf's staff."

We did.  
I did.

"Now I count to three, and we run. We run right to the edge and use it as a jump-off. Lean forward as you jump. The worst that can happen are scraped palms and knees. I promise. Ready?"

"Yes," I gasped.

"One, two, three."

We ran.  
We jumped.

A dizzying second I was suspended in the air above the mighty chasm, the sound of churning water drifting up to me.

Then I was flat on my face, lying partly on Boromir.

Wincing slightly, the man sat up and smiled at me. "See, I told you. Nothing to it."

I was too shaken to even nod. I remained on the ground for several minutes before I was able to get to my feet and go on.

**ooo**

This was not the last fissure we had to jump as we continued through the tunnels of Moria that day, but it was by far the widest. Everyone felt uneasy, as we trudged along in the twilight behind Gandalf's staff. But Frodo was beyond uneasy, he was positively jumpy. He kept looking back across his shoulder, as if he could see things in the dark mouths of the tunnels opening to the left and to the right of our passage that we others could not see, and whenever we stopped, he inclined his head slightly as if he was listening for something.  
And every time Frodo looked back, I felt Boromir, who was walking next to me, tense up.  
The ring, I thought. He must be feeling the ring. 

Around midnight we reached a round hall with three archways, apart from the one we had come from, leading away into the darkness. All of the tunnels seemed to lead into the same general direction, but Gandalf did not recall – if indeed he had come to this hall during his previous visit to Moria – which of the three tunnels we should take.

"We had better stay here for the remainder of the night. All of us are weary. And I am too weary to think which way we should go." The wizard walked around the hall and halted suddenly at a low stone door, hidden in the shadows to the left of the great archways. It could be opened easily.  
Merry and Pippin rushed inside, happy to have found some shelter from the uncanny darkness of the tunnels. They almost fell into a hole in the ground.

Aragorn was only just in time to catch them at their shoulders. "Let the guide go first," he reprimanded them. "If I had not kept an eye on you, you might still be wondering when you were going to strike the bottom."  
"This must have been a guardroom," Gimli commented, completely unruffled. "And that are the remains of a well." He kicked a rusty bit of metal which might once have been a bucket away into the corner.

I huddled down as far away from the well as I could. I hated black holes. I hated chasms.  
Pippin, however, did not seem sufficiently terrified by the dangerous jumps we had had to take. He crept to the edge of the well and stared into its depths for a long time. Suddenly he made a small movement, and I jumped from my corner, my heart in my mouth. I had forgotten about the stone!_ Oh, bloody fucking hell!_

The sound of the pebble hitting the walls of the well echoed through the hollow shaft.

"What have you done now?" cried Gandalf, rounding on Pippin.  
"It was just a pebble," Pippin said with a mutinous look on his face.  
"Fool of Took!" Gandalf exclaimed. "This journey's serious, not a walking-party! Do that again and I will throw you into that hole after your pebble!"

Gandalf turned his back on the young hobbit, and Pippin crept back to the other hobbits, his ears flaming red.

I was counting the beats of my heart.

When I had reached 398, out of the depths from far, far below, the sound of knocking drifted up to us. Echoes rose in the shaft and died down. A few seconds it was absolutely quiet.  
Then, somewhere below, but not as far below as the first knocks, a series of low rhythmical beats answered the first. This time the echoes were muffled sooner, and everything went quiet again.

I rubbed at my forehead with icy hands. Was this already the chamber where the Orcs attacked the fellowship? Or had that been later and somewhere else?

"That was a hammer," Gimli said. "Or I have never heard one. And it was some kind of code."  
"Yes," Gandalf agreed, glowering at Pippin. "Thanks to that idiot hobbit our presence in Moria has been noticed already."

As a reward, Gandalf made Pippin take the first watch.  
But Gandalf remained awake along with the hobbit, smoking his pipe in silence.  
I fell asleep, watching the dim glow of the pipe lighting up in the darkness near the door, to the rhythm of Gandalf's breathing.

**ooo**

When Gandalf woke us, I had lost all sense of time and place.  
We had a quick breakfast, and then we started down the right tunnel. We walked without any further incidents for eight hours. This tunnel was taking us upwards again. And to my immense relief, its floor was smooth and even with no cracks and fissures.  
It had to be close to nightfall, when we came suddenly to the end of the tunnel. Passing through a pointed archway, we came to stand in a black and empty space. From the darkness a breeze of cool fresh air was blowing into our faces. 

"Ah," Gandalf said. "We chose the right way. We have come to the halls above the Dimrill Gate. I think I can risk a little real light here."

He raised his staff above his head, and white light flared up like a great floodlight.  
The sight of the immense hall was even more awesome than Peter Jackson's vision of Moria as presented in the movies, although he was surprisingly close to the real thing, I mused, looking up the huge columns, trying to see the ceiling far above me. But I could not discern the roof of this great hall, it was too far above. Walls, pillars and floor of this immense hall were made of black stone, which was polished to a shiny finish, looking like glass, like black obsidian, but not like the rock of a mountain shaped into a cave. Where the white light of the wizard's staff hit the stone, it flashed and glittered. Again there were three more entrances to the hall. One on the far side of the hall, barely discernible in the shadows, and two closer to us, on either side of the hall.

But great as the hall might be, and it was greater, and with lights surely more beautiful than the gothic cathedrals I had seen on earth, I did not like to camp there for the night. I felt vulnerable in this large dark space, with the four dark tunnels leading right up to us.  
Gimli favoured us with a rendition of a ballad about Khazad-dûm. Sam liked it. I was simply glad not to have to listen to the silence of the darkness all around us.

I had the first watch together with Legolas.  
Nothing happened.  
No sound, no light, no movement in the shadows.  
I was tired enough to fall asleep at once when my watch was over.

**ooo**

I woke to pale shafts of light hitting the black floor of the hall at regular intervals. The air of theses pale beams of sunshine was filled with tiny motes of dust. 

Gandalf smiled at us, relief in his eyes. "We have reached the east side of Moria. We have come out too high, but if we descend from here, we should be able to find the Great Gates before the afternoon and have our evening meal above the waters of the Mirrormere."

My heart started racing. My mouth was suddenly dry. My temples were throbbing.

No, I thought. We won't. You won't.

But I did not say anything, and dropped my gaze quickly to hide the expression on my face from the others.

We went through the northern arch and on through a wide corridor. At its end bright sunlight slanted onto a slab of white stone in a small square chamber. The others walked up to the chamber quickly. I followed reluctantly, staying at the rear with Aragorn. He looked at me with a strange expression on his face, but he did not say anything.  
Inside the chamber, the other members of the company were standing in silence around Balin's grave.


	15. Doom

**15. Doom**

I could not look at the others as I entered the chamber. I was scared out of my wits, and I was afraid that this – in the eyes of the others – unreasonable fear showed on my face.  
Instead I looked around the chamber of Mazarbul. 

The large door through which we had entered was broken. But in the left-hand corner of the opposite wall there was another door, much smaller. On the ground around both doors broken swords and axe-heads lay scattered, rusty remnants of helms and shields. Some of the discarded weapons had an evil, black look to them.

In the walls on the left and the right were many shelves and recesses carved into the rock. There I could see many burst iron-bound chests made of wood. But all of them were obviously opened by force and plundered.

I walked along the wall to the left, feeling sick with fear. I stumbled across something on the floor. As I looked down, I swallowed hard. It was a book. Or rather it had been a book. It was torn and partly burned, and there were brown spots on the yellowing pages, which could only be blood. I picked it up and held it out to Gandalf.  
"I think we should get the hell out of here," I whispered to the wizard. He raised his bushy eyebrows at me and took the book from my hands.  
"What is it that you found?" Gimli asked, his voice even gruffer than usual. Together they pored over the book.  
At long last Gandalf lifted his head. "It is a record of Balin's endeavours here in Moria."  
"What does it say?" Frodo asked and walked up to the wizard.

I looked at the hobbit, and heard a faint whisper nagging at the back of my mind. _Take it and get out of here. Take it, take it. Or you won't get out of here. _I closed my eyes, the feeling of nausea increasing by the minute. A foul taste was in my mouth. White walls, I thought firmly. White walls all around me. No door. No crack. Sunshine above me. A fleeting image of Glorfindel at his desk passed through my mind, and the evil whispering died down and disappeared. When I opened my eyes, I looked right at Boromir. He stood at the large doors across the room, but he was watching Frodo, a feverish gleam in his eyes. His hands were rhythmically clenching and unclenching. Drops of sweat formed on his forehead.

The ring gets to him, I thought. We have to get out of here.

"Couldn't we get going, please?" I asked, trying in vain to keep my mounting desperation out of my voice.

Gandalf looked up from the book. His blue eyes were full of sorrow as he gazed at me. "This is grim reading," he said. _"We cannot get out. The end comes. Drums, drums in the deep. _The last words are _'They are coming'_." He closed the book slowly, still looking at me.  
"We cannot get out," Gimli repeated. "How horrible. I guess we were lucky to get in at all, with that evil creature in that pool out yonder."  
Gandalf handed the book to Gimli, who put it into his backpack. "We should really get going now," the wizard said.  
"Which way shall we go?" Boromir asked, looking back into the corridor we had left. "Back there or through the little door over there?" He pointed into the corner of the chamber.  
"As this is the chamber of Mazarbul, the hall has to be the twenty-first of the North-end," Gandalf said slowly. "We are six levels above the gates. We go back to the hall, bear right and go downwards. We will be out of here soon. Let's go!"

**ooo**

As if on cue, the ground shook with a great, rolling noise, the sound of an explosion or a crash deep below our feet. Aragorn and Boromir leapt to the shattered doors, their swords drawn. A series of deep echoing drum rolls followed the first noise. And indeed, the sound of the drums rang in my ears as_ doom, doom, doom._

I drew my sword, too. The thin, sharp blade of Tínu shimmered pearly white in the light coming through the narrow shaft in the ceiling of the chamber. A brassy clarion sounded from the hall, answering the rolling of the drums. I heard the sound of running iron clad feet.

"They are coming," Legolas cried, stringing his bow.  
"We cannot get out," Gimli muttered, swinging the huge war-axe down from his back.  
The hobbits crowded together behind Balin's tomb, their small swords drawn. Frodo's blade, Sting, blazed a deep blue. Orcs were near.

"Trapped," Gandalf said. For a moment it seemed as if he wanted to add something, but then he gave me a tired smile and drew his sword. Glamdring shone with a bright, white light. Orcs were near.

_Doom, doom, doom._  
The sound of the drums in the deep reverberated through stone and bone.  
_Doom, doom, doom._

The wizard stepped up to the door.

"Who dares to come here and disturb the rest of Balin, Lord of Moria?" he called out in a powerful, commanding voice.

A cackle of evil laughter answered him, and a black arrow hissed into the chamber, only narrowly missing Gandalf's head. For the blink of an eye Gandalf lighted the dark hall with a blinding flash of light.

Then he quickly jumped back into the chamber, avoiding a score of arrows by a hair's breadth. "Many Orcs are out there, and some are large and evil; black Uruks out of Mordor, and something huge at the back, a cave-troll, maybe more than one. We cannot hope to get out of here through the hall now."  
"If we can make them back away, if we can somehow wedge the small door shut behind us, we might yet escape," Aragorn said. "We will have to make them fear the Chamber of Mazarbul." And as he raised his sword, Andúril, there was a grim light in his eyes.

Boromir closed the shattered doors of the chamber, grunting with the effort. But as he wedged it with broken swords and axe-heads, the right part of the door was already being shoved open again, painfully slow against the great bodily strength of the Gondorian warrior, but inexorably. Suddenly a large, scaly green foot was shoved into the room. It had no toes, but one great claw at its tip.

"Help me," Boromir gasped.

Without hesitation, Frodo leapt up to him and, putting the weight of his body on it, shoved Sting into the back of the foot. There was an inhuman yowl of pain, and Frodo was almost torn out through the door. He staggered back, his sword still clutched in both hands, covered in black, stinking troll blood.

Outside, the silence was ringing.

Aragorn jumped to Boromir's aid and together the men wedged the door shut tightly. Gandalf shoved Frodo and me behind the tomb, taking up fighting position with Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas and Gimli in front of it.

With a crashing sound a ram was run against the door. The already broken doors heaved. Another mighty blow against them, and the doors shattered completely. A flood of black bodies, black swords and scimitars, yellow claws and red, evil eyes burst into the chamber. And then I was lunging, slashing, parrying for all I was worth. There was no thinking about stance or style. This was about staying alive, and the rush of adrenaline in my blood left no room for thought or fear.

_Doom, doom, doom_, the great drums of the trolls gave the rhythm to this dance of death.

A huge black orc-chieftain jumped into the middle of the fighters, aiming his spear directly at Frodo. The orc fell, his head neatly cloven in two, but not before he had hurled his spear at Frodo. But the other orcs, seeing their captain fall, drew back, screaming in anguish and rage.

_Doom, doom, doom_, the drums echoed through the darkness of the hall.

"Now," gasped Gandalf. "Now or never!"

Aragorn picked up Frodo, who lay where he had fallen without moving, and we ran into the narrow tunnel behind the small door. But the lock was broken and it opened to the other side. There was no way to wedge the door closed to keep the orcs from following us.

"Let me down," Frodo groaned, coming out of the daze resulting from being hit by the spear.  
"I am alright."

"You should be dead," Aragorn exclaimed. Completely astonished, Aragorn put the hobbit to the ground, but there was no time to marvel at this miracle. Already we could hear the footsteps of our enemies coming closer in the hall beyond.

"I have to shut the door by magic," Gandalf said. "I will catch up with you. I hope. Aragorn, lead them down the stairs, choose paths leading to the right and down. Wait not more than a few minutes for me." Aragorn wanted to object, but even as I snatched at his arm to draw him away, Gandalf said with a fierce voice, which allowed no further argument. "Do as I say! Run!"

And we ran. Down into the darkness, more stumbling than running down many, many narrow stairs. The walls were shaking all around us with the beat of the drums: _doom, doom, doom. _At the end of the stairs we halted, and Aragorn looked back to the top of the stairs, where the light of Gandalf's staff wavered and failed. An enormous crash came from above us and echoed through the mountain, the ground shaking so hard that I was thrown to my knees.

Suddenly everything was silent.

Boromir helped me on my feet again, and I kept clutching at his hand, shaking with fright. A few seconds later Gandalf came running down the stairs. He looked utterly exhausted, his face grey and lined deeply with fatigue. "Run," he rasped out at us. "We have no time to lose! I am sorry, but I am not up to any light for a bit. Run!"

He sprang away into the dimly lit darkness. Boromir followed him immediately, keeping a firm hold on my hand; the others were close behind us. As we ran down the next flight of stairs, the drums picked up their beat again. _Doom, doom, doom_, they called after us ominously.

At the bottom of the seventh flight of steep stairs Gandalf halted suddenly. The air was hot and stuffy down here. "I have to rest for a bit, and if all the orcs of hell are behind us." The wizard was shaking with the effort of remaining on his feet. Gimli helped Gandalf to sit down on the stair. I turned away, closing my eyes.

Everything will be alright. Everything will be alright. But I felt like crying nevertheless.

"What happened at the door?" the dwarf asked. "Did you meet the beater of those drums?"

"No. But I was faced by a dark force of such power as I have never met before. The orcs themselves were afraid; I could hear it in their voices. But they gave no name, all they said was _'ghâsh'_, fire. Whatever it was, it perceived my spell and nearly broke me."

_Balrog_, I thought. _A demon of the old world._

I shuddered.

As I looked up, I noticed that Aragorn was watching me again. Would he understand that I could not have said anything? I turned and looked at the wizard, sitting on the stair in the darkness, looking like a frail old man, clothed in rags. My throat constricted.

**ooo**

After twenty minutes of respite, we started down the next flight of stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, the ground became level again. We hurried on through the darkness, now and again stumbling over the uneven ground of the tunnel. After a while, Gimli called out: "There's light ahead, but it's not daylight!"

Soon even I could see a red glow growing brighter in front of us. We reached a low archway. On the other side seemed to be a large hall, filled with a sickly red light. Carefully Gandalf looked out into the hall around the corner of the archway. "We have reached the Second Hall of Old Moria. Escape is close at hand: we have only to get across the bridge, up the Broad Stairs and along a last few yards of a wide road, through the first hall and we're out. Follow me, quickly – I don't know what new devilry they have waiting for us out there."

This devilry had not much to do with us; it was a volcanic chasm, which had opened in the middle of the Second Hall. The glow we had seen came from the lava flowing at the bottom of the fissure. Black smoke rose above the chasm, swirling up around the large pillars of shining black stone, which supported the vaulted ceiling of the hall. The columns were carved to resemble trees, and they glowed strange and yet very beautiful in the red light of the subterranean fire.

"If we had come down through the hall," Gandalf said, "we would have been trapped." If I had insisted on leaving the chamber of Mazarbul at once, we would have been trapped on the other side of the chasm! My stomach lurched sickly. That had been a close shave indeed!  
"Now for the last race. Run!" And the wizard turned left and raced across the smooth floor of the hall. Boromir caught hold of my hand and dragged me along behind him, forcing me to speed up well beyond my limit of speed.

_Doom, doom, doom,_ the drums called out behind us, and there were horn calls and raucous cries coming closer fast. Arrows whistled past our heads, in the distance I heard the clanging noise of weapons smashed against shields in time to the rhythm of the drums.

"The bridge is near," Gandalf gasped.

Suddenly Boromir stopped dead in his tracks, grasping my shoulders and drawing me back. A few feet in front of us, the ground dropped away into a dark, fathomless abyss.  
Perhaps a yard away a narrow bridge spanned this mighty chasm. While we were running for the bridge, my knees were getting weak with fear. Watching the movies I had always thought that I would never make it across a bridge like that. Now I was here, and I still felt the same.

The bridge was built in a single slender arc, but it was not as long as it was in the movies, probably less than twenty metres, around fifty feet. It had no kerb or rail, and you had to cross it one by one, so narrow was it. It was probably only a metre wide, a little more than three feet.

"Gimli, you go first," Gandalf cried. Gimli nodded and sped out onto the bridge and across it without looking left or right. "Now you, Lothíriel."

I turned to look at the old wizard, for a moment unable to move. The enemy would be upon us any second, and all I could think of was, if I would ever see the old wizard again.

Gandalf reached out to me and clasped my shoulder tightly. "Go!" There were tears in my eyes as I looked at Gandalf. His gaze was piercingly sharp. "Go!"

"Remember to look straight ahead," Boromir whispered in my ear. "Go quickly and DON'T LOOK DOWN."

He took my arm and led me to the bridge. He gave me a slight shove, and I was above the abyss. I tried to see Gimli on the other side. An arrow hissed past me. I started walking, always looking at Gimli. Then I broke into a run, my knees feeling like jelly. Behind me I heard the firm, comforting sound of Boromir's footsteps. Suddenly I was across the bridge and collapsed to the ground. I did not want to look back, but when I heard Legolas wail out in anguish, I raised my head, oblivious of the tears running down my cheeks.

Looming above the members of the fellowship still on the other side of the bridge was a thing made of fire and shadow; it carried a flaming whip and a great, red sword. Its eyes were black holes; its mane was made of smoke.

"DURIN'S BANE," Gimli called out beside me, his axe falling to the ground with a clatter.  
On the other side of the chasm, Aragorn herded the hobbits one by one onto the bridge, Legolas hard on their heels, again and again shooting arrows at the gathered orcs, bringing many to fall, even as he ran.

Gandalf was left on the other side of the abyss alone.

When the hobbits, the elf and Aragorn were across, the wizard stepped onto the bridge and slowly made for its centre. There he stood and turned to face the Balrog. The Balrog spread the shadow clinging around him like giant wings, shutting away the glow from the lava behind him. His fiery whip cracked through the air.

Gandalf had planted his staff before him.  
Glamdring blazed with a white fire in his right hand.  
Gandalf did not move.

"You cannot pass," the wizard called out to the demon. "I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. You cannot pass. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot pass!"

His words were the words from the books, the words from the movies.

The Balrog did not answer, but as his fire dimmed, his shadow grew. With the growing darkness, the air became heavier, making it almost impossible to draw breath. The demon loomed almost to the ceiling far above. Gandalf, standing alone on the bridge, seemed to be only an old man, grey and bent, in torn and ragged clothes, nothing but an old, run-down tramp. White sword and red sword met with a clash that seemed to shake the mountain all around us. Gandalf drew back a couple of steps, but soon stood firm again.

"YOU CANNOT PASS!" he yelled at the Balrog, and his voice had a power which made the assembled orcs on the other side of the chasm tremble with fear.  
But the Balrog snarled at him and leapt lightly onto the bridge, his whips whirling through the air, trailing bright red sparks in its wake.

The name of Elendil as a war-cry on his lips, Aragorn ran back onto the bridge, Boromir hard on his heels, crying 'For Gondor'.

Gandalf raised his staff above his head and smote it down onto the bridge with all his strength. For a moment time seemed to stand still. Then Gandalf's staff shattered and an invisible wave of power threw all of us to the ground. Aragorn and Boromir were almost swept into the abyss.

A white flash of lightning struck the bridge in front of Gandalf, and it broke.

With a cry so loud and terrible that we had to stop our ears, the Balrog toppled forwards and fell, plunging down into the darkness. I watched his flaming whip mesmerized.  
The whip was flung out one last time and curled tightly around the knees of the wizard.

He did not have the time to cry out.

He was gone in the blink of an eye.

I watched in the strangely crystal vision of shock, how Aragorn and Boromir managed to get back to firm ground only seconds before the remainder of the bridge broke away.  
Then I felt Boromir drag me to my feet, and I was swept away. Without any sense of myself or the danger we were still in, I was running along, barely feeling the ground under my feet. I felt as if I was running in a dream, a dark, dark dream that would not end.

_Doom, doom, doom,_ the drums echoed behind us.

We reached a hall which was bright with sunlight from high windows. We passed through huge metal doors which were completely torn asunder. Then we were in front of the Great Gates, facing fifteen orcs, the guards of the gates. I killed one and did not even notice, I just kept running. Boromir and Aragorn killed three each, Gimli five, Legolas four.

I was barely aware of the bright sunshine, which greeted us as we left Moria, racing past the Great Gates and down the worn and cracked steps of the threshold of Moria.  
We only halted when the Dimrill Dale lay before us in the sunlight. Out here it was but an hour after noon, and spring had come. The sun was bright; the sky was blue and the clouds white and fluffy.

I looked back at the mountain behind us, feeling dizzy with shock and exhaustion. The gates of Moria were black, gaping holes in the side of the mountains. Nothing moved in their shadow. From somewhere, far, far below a last, slow drum beat sounded: _Doom._

A yard above the gates a thin wisp of black smoke indicated one of the light shafts. Then it was blown away by the soft breeze.

_Doom._

**oooOooo**

* * *

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JunoMagic


	16. Loss and Love

**Rating: **This chapter contains strong but non-explicit adult themes, references to violence, and strong coarse language according to the rating M recommended by FFNet. This chapter is therefore not suitable reading material for children or teens below the age of 16.

* * *

**oooOooo****  
**

**16. Loss and Love**

The members of the fellowship were standing around among the rocks above the Dimrill Dale, looking lost. Aragorn turned to look at the black gates of Moria above us, and grief was raw and painful in his face. "Oh, Gandalf," he cried, his voice strangled. "Did I not warn you? Did I not say,_ if you pass the doors of Moria, beware?_ What hope is left to us now?"

He raised his sword in a gesture of last farewell to the gates and then sheathed the sword with shaking hands. I could see how he clenched his hands into fists, in anger and in pain. And when he turned, I was scared. His anger was directed at me. His grey eyes were blazing and his lips were pressed together in a tight, white line. The lines of his face were strained with tension.

I turned around, my heart beating. "Shouldn't we get going?" I asked Legolas, who had hidden his grief behind his unreadable mask of elvish immortality. He was standing close to Gimli, his hand resting lightly on the shoulder of the dwarf. Legolas looked up, needing a second to comprehend my question. "Yes, we should. When night falls, the orcs will swarm out after us.""Yes," agreed Aragorn, who had come to stand behind me. "We must do without hope, but go on nevertheless. Let's go!"

East of the valley the mountains came to an end, and far green lands could be seen beyond, hazy with the distance. To the South the Misty Mountains seemed to go on forever.

On the west side of Dimrill Dale I saw the dark, smooth surface of a large lake.

We followed a rough and broken road down from the threshold of Moria, a dusty track between heather and gorse. Now and again we came upon the remnants of pavement, or heaps of tumbled stonework next to the path. Grassy mounds grown with bushes of rosehips and whitethorn, plants, which grow only where the earth has been moved spoke of buried buildings.

We were getting close to the edge of the lake now, and when Gimli saw a single column which was broken off at the top not far from the road, he called out to Frodo and me, "That is Durin's stone. We cannot pass with at least one glance at the wonder of this dale."

"But be quick," Aragorn ordered.

Gimli followed my gaze and motioned us to follow him. We walked down a long green slope towards the lake. Frodo followed us more slowly, being trailed by a watchful Sam.

The lake was long and oval and indeed shaped almost like a spear-head. Its northern end lay in the dark shadows of the mountains, but on the southern end the sun was shining. The water of the lake was a very dark blue colour like the sky at the height of summer, just before the stars come out, a deep, clear, inky blue. The surface of the lake was smooth and still; it almost looked like glass and not like water at all. It was only an hour after noon, but there were tiny silver pinpricks of stars reflected in the lake, gleaming like diamonds in the depths of the water. In the blue sky above us, however, the sun was shining brightly and no star could be seen at all. And even when we bent down to the water, there was no reflection of our bodies in the water at all.

"There lies the Mirrormere, deep Kheled-zâram, and this pillar marks the spot, where Durin first looked in the Mirrormere," Gimli said. But he did not say anything else, although I remembered well, how Gandalf had wished him to have joy of this sight.  
When we had passed the Mirrormere, the road led quickly downwards and ran towards the end of the dale. We passed the spring of the Silverlode, which is so cold that it cannot be consumed. But at the freshet of the Silverlode, with its small fall of icy, crystal clear water, I saw the first glimpse of Lothlórien, an area covered by golden mist where the silver ribbon of the Silverlode disappeared in to the hazy distance of the lowlands.

"There we shall go," Aragorn said, "It is the road Gandalf chose for us.""The woods of Lothlórien are the fairest dwellings of all my people," Legolas said, and for the first time since I knew him, I thought I could detect a hint of emotion in his voice. "There are no trees like the trees of that land! The mellyrn don't lose their leaves in autumn and winter. The leaves turn to gold and only fall when the boughs are green with spring and laden with yellow blossoms. Therefore we call them the golden woods, because their floor is golden and their canopy of leaves is golden, too, but the bark of the mellyrn is smooth and grey like pillars of silver in great, golden halls…" There was a dreamy sparkle in Legolas' green eyes, "Oh, to be there in spring!"  
"I'll be glad to get there in winter," Aragorn said. "Now, let's make haste, we have still many miles to go today!"

**ooo**

But we did not get far before we had to rest again. Frodo and Sam were soon lagging behind. I was stumbling every three steps with weariness. Finally Aragorn and Boromir picked up Frodo and Sam to carry them the last mile to a sheltered resting place Aragorn recalled. This was a copse of fir-trees at the confluence of the Silverlode and the Celebdil, called after the mountain where it had its spring. The rivers plunged together over a fall of stones green with algae and ferns into a small dell, where the water foamed whitely, before continuing in a south-eastern direction as a silver ribbon sparkling in the sunshine. The ground rose steeply above the copse, but close to the river was some level space surrounded by a thicket of harts-tongue and whortle-berry – which Sam pointed out to me later; I was happy to recognize a fir-tree and an oak, those shrubs and bushes were beyond me on earth and doubly so here in Middle-earth.

Anyway, it was a good resting place, safe from prying eyes with wood for a fire and water for drinking and washing. "We will stay here for two hours or so," Aragorn announced. "I have to treat the wounds of the hobbits, and all of us have to eat and rest. I think we are safe for the moment but don't go far from this shelter, and not on your own."

While Aragorn tended to the hobbits, I hurried a few feet down the river, where the thicket of bushes and shrubs grew close to its banks. I considered the possibility of one of my male companions watching me, but then I thought what the hell.

I had not been able to wash thoroughly for more than two weeks. I was itching all over. My hair was greasy and I stank to high heaven. I had a reasonably clean change of clothing left in my backpack and there was even a small amount of shower gel left. I undressed and was in the river in next to no time. The water was icy. It might be safe to drink, but I felt blue with cold within seconds, even if I probably wasn't. There were goose bumps all over my body. And if the ground of the river had not consisted of fine pebbles, I would have broken an ankle in the first thirty seconds in the water, jumping up and down from the cold, as I was.

As I soaped down my body, I realized that I was covered in bruises, and there was a long, shallow gash across my upper right arm, which started bleeding again, when I submerged to wash away the suds. My hair had grown quite a bit, too, and washing it thoroughly in the icy water of the river was an ordeal. When I finally felt I was as clean as I could get, I climbed out of the river, shivering violently. My favourite blue towel was dirty and frayed at the edges.

Somehow it felt strange that I still had something ordinary like a towel. It was strange that after the darkness of Moria I was still able to think about wanting to be clean. It was strange that the sun was still shining.  
Gandalf was gone. The thought hit me unexpectedly. What if he would not be back? After all, more than once things had happened up until now that had not been in the books, or had turned out different from the books! What if I had killed him? And Aragorn was blaming me already!

Suddenly my knees went all wobbly and, clothed only in my bra and panties, I sank down at the bank of the river and sobbed into my dirty blue towel. I felt as if my heart was broken. Gandalf had been my anchor. He knew where I came from, his mere presence had reassured me every step of the way that there was a reason for my being here – that I was allowed to be here – that he, at least, wanted me to be here. And now I was all alone.

**ooo**

"Hey, what's the matter, Lothíriel?" a soft voice called out to me. I looked up and saw Boromir approaching from down the river. His hair was damp. Obviously he had used the opportunity for a quick wash, too.

I could only sniffle and mumble something like, "Nothing, really," before I hid my face in my towel in a new flood of tears.

Suddenly I felt myself being held by strong arms. My face was pressed into the soft, velvety fabric of a crimson vest, which smelled all male and spicy of vetiver. "Just cry yourself out," Boromir whispered into my ear, stroking my wet and tangled hair. "I feel the same," he added, and there was anguish in his voice.

Without thinking I clung to Boromir with both hands and buried my face in his chest, letting go of the control I kept on my emotions for the first time since I had come to Middle-earth.

At last the tears stopped, and I looked up at Boromir, my vision still slightly blurred. His grey eyes were dark and full of pity. There was a very tender expression on his face, and suddenly my stomach lurched. I could feel my heart speeding up.

His fingers left my hair and gently trailed down my ear, the line of my jaw, down to my chin. His hands were a little rough and callused, but the touch was exquisitely soft. I drew breath sharply. I looked into his eyes and saw a question there. I gulped. Sudden, unexpected desire rushed through my body.

"I need to know what you think of me," I whispered. "I am not a tart to be had casually. Not even by the son of the Steward of Gondor."

"I know that by now, my lady," he told me, and his voice was deep with emotion.

A sudden feeling of shock raced through me. _He couldn't be falling in love with me!_

But then he lowered his head and kissed me, and I could not think anymore at all.

His lips were soft and firm. He kissed slowly, moving his lips across my mouth in a lingering caress. His left hand cupped the back of my head, his right tightening on my hand.

He increased his pressure on my lips, and I parted them willingly. Ever so lightly he tickled the insides of my lips with his tongue, teasing me. All reason gone from my mind, I slipped my hands around his neck. I kissed him back, sliding my tongue into his mouth, rubbing along his tongue in a kiss that was no longer soft, but hot with desire.  
He let himself sink back onto the grass, taking me with him. I came to lie on top of him, the velvet of his vest tickling my stomach, his belt buckle pressing cold and hard into my softer flesh, further down his desire touchable through the straining leather of his trousers. His hands were closing around my back, holding me tightly against him.

I kissed his cheeks, soft again, trailing feathery kisses back to his lips. Around his eyes and his mouth were deep lines, which had not been there in Rivendell, and there was a hint of desperation in his eyes. As if he felt just as lost and confused as I was feeling.

I deepened my kiss again, and the moment passed, and desire overwhelmed any other emotion. He groaned. Tightening his hold on me, he rolled us around, bringing himself above me. His eyes were blazing, as he began stroking my body. He started at my collarbone, tracing the bones with his fingertips, kissing the soft indentation at its centre, and then trailing down his tongue to my breasts. He removed my bra carefully, putting it aside in a slow movement. When he looked at my uncovered breasts, he sighed with delight.

He cupped my breasts in his large, callused hands, massaging them and kissing them at the same time. Time and space lost their meaning, when he trailed his fingers down my sides, tickling me ever so slightly. I was already straining against the strength of his body, when he reached down between my legs at last. Delicately, expertly, he found my hidden spot of desire. I had to press my lips together not to moan loudly. When I thought I could take it no longer, he swiftly shed his clothes. His body was lean and well muscled, a warrior's body. His chest was covered with dark curly hair. Silvery pale old scars was visible here and there. I followed the lines of the scars with my fingertips, and he shivered against me. He was circumcised. And he was big.

I stroked down his sides to his hips, all at once apprehensive.

But he kissed me again, deeply, his tongue caressing my own. Then he resumed kissing me down from my throat to my navel, and lower still. Even if I had wanted, I could not have moved away, caught in the strength of his hold. This feeling of helplessness was strangely exhilarating. The throbbing low inside my body increased to an almost unbearable level. Boromir seemed to notice, for he closed the last distance between our bodies.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he shoved himself inside of me. I had never been filled like this and could barely keep from screaming with pleasure. Lost in desire I deepened my kiss of his shoulder into a bite to muffle any sound I might make, wrenching a low moan of desire from his lips in return.

Once inside of me, he began to move against me in slow, but firm rocking motion.

And Gods, did he take his time! The world disappeared around me. My world was narrowed to the feeling of Boromir inside of me, holding on to me. And again, I felt the throbbing deep down inside of me increase to the most delicate edge of desire, where you are almost bursting with release, but not quite, not quite yet. He seemed to know exactly how I was feeling because he moved even slower. Only when I thought my heart would explode, he thrust into me powerfully, again and again and again, and I was lost, lost in an explosion of feeling that was so intense it was almost painful. He followed only a second after me, his face open and vulnerable with our passion. He moaned lowly, as he moved against me one more time. Then he lowered himself down on his elbows, kissing my lips gently, not yet withdrawing.

I felt utterly spent, but complete and at peace with the world, held by his loving arms. When he withdrew and slid down next to me, drawing my head to lie on his chest, embracing me tightly. We lay there for quite some time, without speaking, dozing in the aftermath of passion.  
**  
**

** ooo**

Only when I shivered slightly as the cool breeze rising from the river blew across my naked body, he raised himself up. "We should get dressed. Aragorn will want to move on."

"Yes," I agreed, drowsily. "It's a wonder Gimli has not come looking for us already."

"Now that would be awkward, wouldn't it?" Boromir asked, grinning slightly.

"Yep. It would be awkward to explain why the dwarf fainted," I quipped, feeling soothed and at ease. We dressed swiftly, but as there was still no sound from the others, we did not go back to the copse, but stayed at the bank of the river to eat a piece of way bread each and some dried fruit Boromir had in his pockets. There was not much variety left to our provisions, but today it tasted like delicacies, spiced by Boromir's kisses.

When we were ready to return to the others, Boromir caught my arm and drew me into a tight embrace. "Lothíriel, I know this is neither the appropriate time or place, and you will want to get to know me better and meet my family, and I can understand if you won't answer right away, but," he hesitated, looking at me with a nervous and a bit frightened expression on his face.

No, I thought. Oh no. This could not be possibly happening. My stomach lurched sickly.

"But," Boromir continued, "I am not a man casual in his desires. When we reach Minas Tirith, I would ask you to consider allowing me to court you according to the customs of my people. I have never met a woman who is so smart and brave and independent such as you. I feel drawn to you in a way I have never experienced before. No, don't say anything. I understand if, after we – er – and the circumstances…" he trailed off, his lips slightly quivering. This speech was obviously difficult for the lord and warrior, who was used to leadership and control of all matters of life.

I swallowed hard; with the passion spent, my mind was clear again, and I felt as if my heart was breaking. I leaned my forehead against Boromir's chest, hiding my tears and my pain. "Of course you may court me." I took a deep, strained breath. "When - when we reach Minas Tirith."

Boromir's embrace tightened and when I looked up, his face was completely relaxed and shining with hope.

**ooo**

We made our way back to the copse just in time. Aragorn was angry and told us we were too late, and he could not spare the time to send someone looking for every member of the company whenever we rested for a bit. I did not say anything to that, blushing hotly. Boromir looked the ranger straight in the eye and said, "Sorry, it won't happen again," in an extremely cool voice.

We had not been back to the road for more than two hours when the day was fading into twilight. It was only January, and night fell quickly. Mist rose from the river and the hollows around us, and only on the golden woods in the distance the last pale light of the evening still lingered.

We walked on as the night darkened and many bright stars appeared in the sky.

Aragorn and Legolas were leading the company now, followed by Merry and Pippin. After the hobbits I walked, and Boromir was one or two steps behind me. Behind Boromir Sam was walking, glancing across his shoulders now and again uneasily. Gimli and Frodo brought up the rear. Frodo had drawn Sting, but luckily the blade remained dull, only now and again blinking silvery in the light of the stars.

There were no orcs close behind us, yet.

**ooo**

We walked up another hill and found ourselves looking down into a wide valley, opening onto the plains far to the East. From the valley the rushing sound of many leaves in the wind drifted up to us.

"This is Lothlórien!" Aragorn said, relief evident in his voice. "We will rest here for the night. It is another five miles to the Gates, but that is too far to reach tonight. But even the outskirts of Lórien may hold enough elvish blessing to ward off any peril which might be following us."  
"If there are any Elves left here in these days of shadows," Gimli grumbled.  
"I have never been here," Legolas said, "but I have heard that Lórien is not yet deserted."  
"No, it isn't," Aragorn confirmed, his eyes shining, the light of happy memories, no doubt. "But they keep to the heart of these woods. Tonight we are on our own. We will head into the woods for a ways and then seek shelter."  
I felt Boromir tense up beside me. "What is it?" I whispered.  
Boromir licked his lips nervously. He looked at Frodo, and a painful shadow passed across his face. "Nothing," he answered in the end. "It's only, I have heard strange rumours about these woods. There's supposed to be a great sorceress living in these woods, allowing no one to leave unscathed."

He was frightened, I realized. And the ring was wearing him down. Had no one bothered to tell him how to shield his mind? Would it be too late to show him now?

I felt the dark knowledge of his fate choke me. I should never have allowed him to kiss me, never have… I swallowed hard and gripped his hand. "Don't worry, Boromir. The Lady in the Wood is not evil. She will help us. Trust me." I could see that he wanted to ask how I knew this, but when I did not say anything else he squeezed my hand in return, and followed Aragorn into the wood with confident strides.

We had not walked far into the forest, when we reached a swiftly flowing stream which came down from a wooded slope leading up into the mountains to the West.

"This is the river Nimrodel," Legolas said, his voice full of joy. "It is remembered still in many songs of my people. If you bathe your feet in its water, your weariness will fade away."

We followed him down to the stream, and in the end all of us who were not bare-footed anyway removed their shoes and boots and waded across the stream, whispering and laughing softly. Boromir was holding my hand, and the healing waters of the Nimrodel seemed to ease the tension from his face that had been growing again during our march.

When I slipped back into my socks and shoes on the other side of the river, I felt my own worries and hurts diminished, too, and in my heart a feeling of great joy rose at the passion I had experienced today, and at the trust and hope offered to me by Boromir.

Unforeseen grace in times dark and dangerous, I mused. Thank You, God, wherever You may be.  
**  
**

** ooo**

We rested for a while on the banks of the Nimrodel, and when we had refreshed ourselves with dry bread and many cups of the Nimrodel's clear water, Legolas sang us the song of Nimrodel. The elf had one of the most beautiful voices I had ever heard; it was higher than a soprano and clearer than the river's water.

But the song was sad like most elvish songs of Middle-earth. I sat huddled in Boromir's embrace. Feeling lonely and sad I was not up to circumspect behaviour. So I sat down next to Boromir, and after a moment's hesitation he put his arm around me. Sitting down next to Boromir like that had earned me some looks. Dark and glowering – Aragorn. Frowning and suspicious – Sam. Plainly curious – Merry and Pippin. Absolutely inscrutable – Legolas. Gimli was the only member of the fellowship who had simply ignored this development.

When I looked up at Boromir's fair and noble face as the song ended, I saw tears shimmering in his eyes. A pain seared my heart and I wished I could have the time to get to know him better, to get to know him the way he wanted me to.

**ooo**

When the elf had ended his song, we talked about the safest way to spend the night, and in the end it was decided to try and climb up a tree to seek cover from any pursuit.

Legolas chose a large mallorn to climb upon as the tree to have likely boughs big enough to support even tall men like Aragorn or Boromir.

But when he reached for the lowest branch, a commanding voice sounded from above our heads: _"Daro!"_

Legolas dropped back to the ground, swaying close to the shelter of the tree trunk.

"Keep back," he hissed at us. "Stand still, don't speak."

Boromir shoved me behind his back, shielding me with his body.

Soft laughter issued from the tree top above us. Then a clear voice addressed Legolas in an obviously elvish language, but it was neither Sindarin, which I understood fairly well by now, nor Quenya, which I did not understand, but would have recognized.

"Who are they, and what do they say?" Merry asked, his eyes gleaming whitely with fear in the shadows.  
"They are Elves, of course," Sam said irritably. "That's one of the Silvan dialects, I guess. But there are so many of them, I keep mixing them up."

Everyone looked at Sam full of surprise, save me. I knew that Sam had spent a good deal of his time in Rivendell learning the elvish languages. He had been a better student than I was.

"Indeed they are," Legolas told us. "And they say that you are breathing so loudly they could shoot you with their eyes closed."

Sam clapped his hand to his mouth. I giggled, causing Boromir to turn around and glare at me reproachfully.

"They are friends," I whispered. "I promise." He raised his eyebrows, but relaxed slightly.

Frodo was invited to climb up into the tree. Waiting for someone to come down and bring the message that we might stay was agonizing. Aragorn did not allow us to sit down, but made us stay close to the tree, with himself, Legolas and Boromir watching the darkness for any pursuit hidden behind some shrubs a yard away from us.

Finally the elf who introduced himself as Haldir jumped down out of the darkness, landing as smoothly on his feet as a cat.

"You may stay up in the tree for tonight. Leave your packs hidden in the leaves over there. You won't need your blankets," he said, when Merry made to take his rolled up sleeping bag off his pack. "We have cloaks and furs to spare up on the talan."

Haldir helped the hobbits climb up this tree; his brother Orophin led the rest of us to the one next to it.

Strange as it may sound, I had not trouble climbing up the rope ladder into the top of the tree; perhaps because it was too dark to see how high I was climbing. Up on the wooden platform I lay down next to the tree trunk, which was curving slightly outward, creating a small sheltered hollow. Boromir lay down next to me, so I was in no danger at all of accidentally rolling off the talan in my sleep and falling to my death.

I fell asleep at once, and did not even wake to the noise of the company of orcs, passing into the woods only a short distance down the river during the night.


	17. The Law of the Galadhrim

**17. The Law of the Galadhrim**

I woke from golden spots of light dancing on my closed eyelids. I opened my eyes and blinked, for a moment confused, at my surroundings. Golden leaves were rustling all around me.

Lothlórien. I was up in a tree.

_Boromir_. What had I done?

Where was everyone?

I looked around me apprehensively. I was sitting in a heap of warm grey and green blankets with a large black fur at the bottom. The wooden platform we had slept on was deserted, but from somewhere close by I heard the voices of the hobbits raised in laughter.

A moment's peace. Thank God.

I rose to my feet carefully, not sure about the stability of the platform I was on. But the wood stayed firmly beneath my feet. I exhaled with a sigh. I simply was not at my best with heights.

At the edge of the platform the branches of the mallorn curled up, forming a natural balustrade around the talan. The thinner limbs growing to the sides had been skilfully braided together. Even if I had slept at the outer edge of the talan, I could never have fallen off. Looking down the hole, through which the platform could be accessed, my stomach lurched slightly. The grey rope ladder was swaying slightly in the breeze. On the other hand, I could see how well the wooden platform was built by looking at the hole. It showed clearly that the platform was made of very thick planks of silver wood. Each plank was probably a full foot wide, and they were attached without any obvious seams. This was woodwork of a quality I had never seen before. Even with the most sophisticated machinery of the earth you would be hard put to build something similar, I thought.

I walked around the platform once. I was all alone up here. Apparently I had been allowed to sleep myself out. For once I felt completely rested. And relaxed. Sex and a good night's rest and you're a new woman. But my stomach cramped at the thought of Boromir. I could not deny feeling attracted to the man. He was tall and well built. Every inch of him was more than well built, I thought and felt heat rising to my cheeks. He was brave. He was honest. He was kind. He had a sense of humour. He was falling in love with me. He was being corrupted by the ring. And in a month's time he'd be dead.

Gods, Lothíriel, you can really pick 'em.

Would it perhaps be possible to change his fate?

I intertwined my fingers, then parting my hands again, rubbing them together, and intertwining my fingers again…

No, I thought and felt tears rise to my eyes. True, my presence and my actions had accounted for some small changes in the storyline as I knew it. But to turn a fate? I could not really believe that this would be possible. And the orcs would be there. The orcs would be there. But where would I be?

"Lothíriel? Are you awake? Breakfast's ready!" Boromir called up to me from somewhere down below.  
My heart pounding, I answered, having a hard time to keep my voice from shaking.  
"Yes, I'm awake, and I'd love some breakfast. But how do I get down to you?" I could not suppress a slight quaver in my voice at the end. How had I ever managed to climb this thin rope ladder in the night?

I heard stifled male laughter and bright, hobbity giggling. Just you wait, Peregrin Took. There will be something disgusting waiting for you in your sleeping bag sometime soon! Just you wait!

A moment later Boromir appeared in the hole. When he saw me, the tension faded from his face and he smiled at me tenderly. I smiled back, a lopsided smile, hopefully not quite a grimace.

"Hey," the warrior said softly. "Don't worry; I'll get you down safely. And tonight we can perhaps sleep on the ground."  
"Thank you," I whispered. This was going to be hard. What had I gotten myself into?  
"Now, kneel down, and I will take your feet and place them on the ladder. Don't worry about falling; I am here to catch you! I will keep you safe."  
"I hope so," I said. _And who will catch you? Who will keep you safe?_

Even if you have made sure that you cannot get pregnant, there is no such thing as safe sex. Afterwards, life is always changed for you in some way. Sometimes in a good way, sometimes in a bad way. And all too often, you only know when it's too late how things will turn out. I knew how it would end. But in this case that did not help, either.

I don't remember how, but somehow I reached the ground.  
Once down, I looked up at the talan, where I had climbed down from. It was so high above the ground that it was almost hidden in the leaves. Suddenly my knees felt very weak.

**ooo**

We had breakfast on the banks of the Nimrodel. There were still wisps of mist drifting above the water, and the sky above us still held the very pale blue of early morning. The atmosphere was melancholy. I missed Gandalf. The others did, too; I could see it in their faces.

I remembered the many mornings on the road to Moria when we had made camp wearily as the sun came up. Gandalf had nearly always taken the first watch. I had fallen asleep watching the embers in his pipe glow in the twilight of dawn, rings of smoke drifting to the sky, the comfortable, spicy smell of his tobacco in the air.

Please, God, I thought. Please let him be alright. Please, all Valar of Middle-earth, let him be alright. Please.

When we had finished breakfast, Haldir arrived to lead us to Caras Galadhon.

Our packs waited untouched in the heaps of leaves, where we had hidden them the evening before. After brushing off a few golden leaves, we were ready to go within minutes.

Legolas was trailing behind us, looking back at the silver flood of the Nimrodel wistfully. "Never have I heard a river's rushing sound so sweetly. It is like an endless song…"  
The elf's face was sombre. It was obvious that he would have liked to stay at the river for a time yet.  
"You could come back some day," I said, touched by the unusual openness of the elf.

But Legolas shook his head sadly. "My gift of foresight is small. But this I know. No road of my life will lead back to this place of beauty."

Humming under his breath, Legolas walked along, following Haldir and the others.

Yeah, I thought, foresight sucks.

Boromir was walking with Aragorn. If I knew anything about body language, then the ranger did not particularly care for his company. Aragorn's eyes still were full of raw grief this morning, and when he had seen me, his eyes had turned very cold.

What had happened between Boromir and me yesterday afternoon had probably not escaped the ranger. Somehow I had the feeling that Aragorn would not be very understanding of shagging as a way of giving comfort to each other.

Sooner or later he would talk to me about it. Make that later, please, I prayed silently.

Leaving the Nimrodel behind us, we followed the Silverlode on a path high up on its western bank. It had grown into a swiftly flowing, broad river with strong currents, their cresting waves indicating a considerable depth of water.

We would have to cross the river soon, and I hoped that for once things would turn out differently from the books. I so did not relish the thought of crossing this river on a rope.

**ooo**

But when Legolas and I had reached the rest of our company, Haldir was already securing slender silvery ropes, which an elf had thrown to him across the river, to a tree on this side of the river.

Why couldn't they have boats? They had boats, I knew that! Why couldn't they use boats for this as well?

"The currents of the Celebrant are too strong for our boats," Haldir told me in response to my thoughts. "But I will assist you across, my lady. I promise you will reach the other shore safely."

Boromir glared at the elf. I raised my eyebrows at him, asking him silently to keep cool. Reluctantly Boromir inclined his head and gave me a small smile. Frodo had caught the exchange between the Gondorian warrior and me and was now taking a turn of raising his eyebrows at me. Aragorn turned to the river with a disgusted look upon his face.

I was beginning to feel more than a little irritated. A random quote from a German movie flashed through my mind: "That's why we never allowed girls to join our gang!"

Guys will be guys, apparently, be they rangers, warriors, hobbits or even elves.

Being angry kept me from being too frightened, and Haldir was very competent in assisting clumsy girls across the river on his make-shift bridge. It did help that I had acquired some muscular strength since I had first walked into Bree almost four months ago.

Four months!

I had been here for almost four months!

By now they had probably stopped searching for me back on earth.

I hoped my folks would not take it too hard. My mother would get over it easily, I thought. She would consult one of her fortune-tellers, and they would probably even tell her some crap about me being in Middle-earth, to comfort her. I snorted at the thought. And she'd probably believe it, too. My step-father would take it harder. I sighed.

I very rarely thought of the people who would miss me on earth.

The reason was not only that I was too caught up in the dangers of our journey, I mused. I simply felt at home here. I felt more connected to every single member of the fellowship than to anyone I had ever known on earth, including the few men I had believed to be in love with.

Now Frodo stepped off the rope bridge and slumped heavily down on the grass, panting with the effort.

All of a sudden, I felt the tug of the ring again, a great power reaching out to me, drawing me closer, fear rising in my heart, choking me. My heart was pounding, and I felt cold sweat on my face.

_What if they make you leave? Aragorn blames you for not preventing Gandalf's fall! He won't want you along! He will make you go! And the witch in the wood has the power to send you back! Back where you belong! Where you can live your life out grieving for the home you found here and lost again!_

I closed my eyes and clenched my hands into fists. This is only the ring. A small, ugly piece of vile metal. It has no power over me. I concentrated on breathing slowly, exhaling in long and low breaths, letting the air flow into my lungs by itself. Gradually my heart rate slowed down again. White walls, I thought. I am sitting on a soft green lawn. All around me are smooth, white walls. I can touch the stones. They are stronger than the bones of the earth, stronger than anything. Above there is blue, blue sky and a golden sun. Nothing evil can touch me here. My fears will not control my mind or my heart.

_I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will remain nothing. Only I will remain._

_Only I will remain,_ I repeated in my mind, quoting the "Litany against Fear" from Frank Herbert's novel "Dune". Suddenly I could breathe easily again. My fear was gone. The horrible voice in my mind was gone. I opened my eyes.

Frodo looked shaken.

Boromir, who was sitting a few feet away, was white as a sheet, his eyes gleaming feverishly.

Did he hear the ring's voice, too?  
Did he know it was the ring's voice?  
Or did he think he was going insane?

**ooo**

"Now, friends, you have entered the Naith of Lórien. From here on the dwarf has to walk blindfolded, because we do not allow strangers to spy out our secrets," Haldir interrupted my dark thoughts. Spy? This choice of words is going to sit very well with Gimli, I thought.

Indeed, the dwarf turned on Haldir at once, his dark eyes blazing angrily. "I am not a spy! And I won't be led about blindfolded like a beggar or a prisoner. My people are enemies of the One Enemy just the same as you are. And we have never done the Elves any harm! This is no way to treat an ally!"  
"I do not doubt you," Haldir said. "But it is our law."  
But Gimli had had enough. With a mutinous look on his face, he planted his feet and shook his head so forcefully his long red beard was flying. "I will go forward free, or I will go back and seek my own lands."  
"You are not allowed to go back. Now that you have set foot in the Naith, you have to be taken to the Lord and the Lady. That is our law," Haldir said stiffly.

Law abiding citizens, how nice.

"May I ask a question?" I asked Haldir. The elf turned to me with a look of surprise on his face, but nodded. "Your laws – do they apply to everyone in the same way?"  
"Yes," Haldir answered, sounding confused. "They do. We are a just people. Our laws are just and equitable."

Well, I was not on firm ground with the concept of equity in English or American law. But I knew about the principles of justice.

"If that is the case," I said, smiling sweetly, "all of us save Aragorn have to be blindfolded, because all of us, save Aragorn, are strangers here."  
"But I am an elf and a kinsman to the wood elves of Lórien." Legolas objected, an angry gleam in his dark eyes.  
"But you have never been here before," I told him. "You said that yourself. If you have never been here before, you are a stranger, and therefore you have to be blindfolded, too. Or did I misunderstand the terms of the law in question?"  
"No, you did not," Haldir said, completely flustered by now. "But…"  
"Nothing but. I've studied law, where I come from. Either it's a law and applicable to every stranger, or it isn't and Gimli walks free," I said firmly.

For once knowing something about the principles of law came in handy. I felt inordinately pleased with myself. Boromir was hard put not to laugh out loud, and Merry and Pippin were giggling uncontrollably. Gimli looked like the cat that ate the canary. Legolas and Aragorn looked angry. Well, you can't make everyone happy.

But that ended the discussion, and everyone save Aragorn was blindfolded.

**ooo**

Holding on to a rope we walked in a single file, with Haldir and Aragorn at the front and the other elf who had waited for us on the other side of the river at the rear. The elves took care that we did not leave the path, stumbling in circles as blind-folded people without any guidance are prone to do. Fortunately the path was smooth and straight, but we kept bumping into one another again and again, when someone slowed down or walked faster for some reason. Boromir was walking behind me. And every time we connected I felt a jolt of desire flash through my body. The younger hobbits were giggling non-stop. Gimli was grumbling at every stumble, and I could add several colourful curses in Sindarin to my vocabulary at the end of the day. Gimli wore heavy, steel-capped boots, and he walked right behind Legolas.

This night we were allowed to sleep on the ground.

I gave serious thought to keeping up appearances. But the only one who could see us was Aragorn, and he was angry at me anyway. So I thought, "What the hell," and curled up as unobtrusively as possible next to Boromir. Not that we could so much as exchange a kiss. It is simply comforting and arousing at the same time to sleep in the close vicinity of a lover.

We were woken in the morning and continued on another smooth and fairly straight path under whispering leaves until noon. We had left the shelter of the trees because I could suddenly feel the sun upon my face.

We halted, and I had the strange feeling of being stared at by many sharp eyes.

"We have met a company of guards," Haldir announced. "They have fought the orcs which followed you and killed most of them. And they bring a message from the Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim. All of you are to walk our lands freely, even the dwarf."

The next thing that happened was that I felt cool fingers at my temples, untying my blindfold.  
We were standing on a narrow trail at the edge of a clearing. Some twenty feet away from us a group of twenty elvish warriors in green and golden armour were standing at the ready. Their captain was with Haldir, talking in a low voice. Haldir's companion and Aragorn were divesting the other members of the fellowship of their blindfolds.

The company of guards saluted us and then turned to disappear into the wood.

I turned my attention back to our surroundings.

We had come to a sunlit clearing. At its centre a grassy hill rose from the level ground of the forest. It was low rather than small. Upon the summit of the hill were two concentric rings of trees. The outer ring consisted of slender white trees which bore no leaves. In the inner ring mellyrn grew, still clothed in the golden leaves of Lothlórien's autumn and winter.

At the centre of both rings the largest mallorn I had seen up until now was reaching high into the sky. A soft wind moved the golden leaves at its top, now and then allowing a glimpse of a platform made of white wood, which was built around its trunk very high above the ground. In the grass many small flowers were blooming, some of them yellow, others white, and a third kind which had petals of the palest green, tinged in white.

Suddenly I realized what this place was. We had come to Cerin Amroth.

"This is Cerin Amroth," Haldir said, "all that remains of the ancient realm. A tall golden tree and small winter flowers in as yet unfading grass. The yellow blossoms are _elanor_. The pale are_ niphredil._ I think we can rest here for a while and walk on to reach the city of the Galadhrim at dusk."

Haldir took Frodo and Sam to climb up the hill and then the great tree on its peak.  
Aragorn wandered off among the rings of trees surrounding the summit of the hill.  
Merry and Pippin were chasing each other around one of the mellyrn next to the path.  
Legolas walked off in the company of Gimli.

I found myself suddenly alone with Boromir.  
I turned to the tall warrior, who looked as if he had unexpectedly woken up in paradise, where no evil could touch him. "Hey," I said softly, smiling up at him.  
"Hey yourself," Boromir answered, a smile tugging at his mouth. He took my hand, allowing his gaze to drift over the beauty of Cerin Amroth. "You were right, Lothíriel. There is a heavenly blessing alive in these woods. I am glad that I was allowed to come here."

The tension of his fighting the lure of the ring faded from his face. His eyes lit up with joy and happiness. He reached out for me and drew me closely against his chest.  
My heart skipped a beat and my stomach fluttered as I lost myself in his bright grey gaze.  
Then he lowered his head and gently, ever so gently placed his lips on my mouth.  
The beauty of Cerin Amroth faded from my mind instantly.

I felt only the strong grip of Boromir's hands at my waist and the slow pressure of his kiss.


	18. Caras Galadhon

**18. Caras Galadhon**

The sun was westering and the shadows of dusk were deepening at the sides of the path, when we finally came out of the forest again. 

We had reached a great circle of level ground covered in emerald green grass, which glowed in the last pale golden light of an early spring sunset. But in the still pale sky, already the first stars were rising as bright pinpricks of gold and silver.

At the centre of the plains a great green hill rose up, surrounded by a moat and high walls, which shimmered as green as the grass of the meadows before us. Upon the hill mellyrn were growing that were even larger than the one on Cerin Amroth. In the deepening twilight they looked like great living towers, and in their branches many silver lights were shining.

Haldir turned around to us, the night breeze playing in his long brown hair, his green eyes blazing. "Welcome to Caras Galadhon," he said with pride in his voice. "This is the city of the Galadhrim, where dwell the Lord Celeborn and Galadriel, the Lady of Lórien."  
"The gates are on the other side of the city; they face to the South. I am afraid the way is not short because the city is great," he added and started out on the path again.

The path led directly to the green city-walls, where it joined a road which was paved with smooth white stones. The road ran along the brink of the moat.

The fortifications of this city reminded me of the city of Carcasonne in France with its two rings of great walls. I knew that Rivendell had been besieged in past ages, but it was much less obviously safe-guarded against attack than Caras Galadhon.

I recalled the maps Glorfindel had shown to me at Rivendell. The evil tower of Dol Guldur was only one hundred and thirty miles to the East from the capital of Lórien. One hundred and thirty miles, or a little over two hundred kilometres. A ride of two and half days, if you could change horses…

Danger was near. Safety was an illusion.

**ooo**

Haldir carried the largest bow I had ever seen, and two long, thin blades were fastened in crossed scabbards to his back much like the thing Peter Jackson had out on Orlando Bloom in the movies. And the way the elf moved reminded me of a wild beast, perhaps a panther… his movements were fluid and graceful, but an invisible tension clung to his figure as if he was constantly on his guard, no matter that we were almost in the well-defended city of Caras Galadhon. 

At first I had been glad to walk on the even surface of a real road once again. But after only a short time my feet noticed that the surface of a real road paved with beautiful white stone was much harder than the springy surface of a muddy path. My feet were hurting abominably by the time we reached the southern side of the city. The ache rose all through my legs. It intensified at the knees and throbbed in my hip bones. It stopped in a nasty dull pain in my back. I was also beginning to get really hungry. In fact, my stomach rumbled so loudly that Gimli and Merry had looked at me in surprise a moment ago.

To my relief I saw a white structure a few yards away that could only be a bridge, which led across the moat towards the walls of the city. This simply had to be the gate to the city.  
It was indeed a bridge, made of white wood, its railings carved into great curling vines. Crossing it I noticed that at the end of the bridge, which faced the city, metal joints were inserted in the wood. If I was not very much mistaken, the bridge could be collapsed easily.  
I looked down into the moat. It was very deep and there seemed to be sharp spikes set into it.  
Fortifications against the coming war, I thought. Had Lórien been attacked during the war of the rings?

I could not remember. There were so many things I could not remember from the stories. In places the things I had seen and had been told since I had arrived in Middle-earth were also becoming mixed up with what I thought that I recalled from the stories. Last but not least there was a wealth of details about life in Middle-earth and its history that Tolkien never mentioned at all.

"How far do we have to go yet?" Pippin grumbled.  
"Yes," Merry said. "I'm hungry!"  
"Me, too," Sam added under his breath.  
I could have added, "And my feet hurt!" But I decided to keep quiet as the leader of the fellowship was not happy with me to begin with at the moment.

It was Haldir who answered the querulous hobbits. "The capital of Lothlórien is a great city. We have to walk for some time yet until we reach our destination."

**ooo**

The gates to the city of the Galadhrim were huge and made of wood, of course, but they were beset with metal fittings to make them even stronger. Haldir walked up to the edge of the gates, knocked and seemed to speak softly to the edge of the wall. I frowned. Why did he do that? But then I recalled a thing I had once seen at a medieval castle on earth. At the sides of the gate there had been tiny shafts inserted into the wall; if you spoke into the shaft, your voice was carried up to the guard rooms. That way you could tell the watch that you were a friend and not have to shout. That way it was also possible to drop burning tar directly into the face of an enemy, or at least make the ground right in front of the gates uncomfortably slick, impeding the use of a battering ram. The Galadhrim had probably built a similar safety measure into their gates.

Anyway, the gates opened noiselessly in front of us. We entered the city, and the gates closed behind us just as silently as they had opened. But the guards who had opened and closed the gates were nowhere to be seen. We were led through a deep lane between the walls of the city. The walls, which seemed to be made from living trees, were not only very high, but also very wide. If they were indeed made of living wood; this was a great fortification indeed, I mused. Green wood does not burn easily. Although I thought that walls made of stone were yet a better defence, anyone who planned to attack the city of Lórien would have a hard time of it.

Our footsteps echoed eerily in the narrow lane between the walls of the city.  
I saw how Boromir's shoulders tensed with apprehension. He did not trust the elves. He did not like to be shut in, in a strange city, which he only knew from fairy-tales and rumours.  
I had the advantage on him there. I knew that Galadriel meant us no harm. I was looking forward to meeting the Lady in the Wood. Would she be at all like the Galadriel of the movies? Or more like the motherly, golden woman I had always envisioned when reading the books?

The lane opened on another broad road paved with white stones. Haldir lead us away from the gates straight into the city. He had been right; it was a great city. And my feet did not like it one little bit. At first I was so absorbed by the great trees to the left and to the right of the road, and enchanted by the sparkling light coming from the many silver and golden lanterns suspended from the boughs of the mellyrn that I forgot about my aching bones. But soon the weariness returned, and I thought that I would collapse if we had still to go very far.

Finally, after many white roads, a number of paths and many, many stairs, we emerged onto a high plateau. It was brightly lit by hundreds of lamps hidden in the trees surrounding it.  
We had reached the heart of the city.

In the middle of a green lawn I saw two large fountains which spilled white foaming water into many silver basins. I could not be sure in the twilight, but I thought that the fountains were surrounded by formal gardens with many flower beds and low hedges. A path covered in white sands led straight ahead through the gardens, passing between the fountains.

At the end of the path grew the greatest mallorn tree that I had seen today. It had to be the tallest tree in Middle-earth. It had to be easily as tall as the tallest mammoth tree on earth.  
Its smooth silvery trunk was as big as a house. A white narrow stair was winding its way up the bole of the tree. Where the stairway met the gigantic dark boughs of the tree, many lights were blazing brightly, mingled with the light of the stars now shining brilliantly from a dark night sky behind them. Indeed, it was difficult to say which light belonged to a lantern, and which to a star. At the bottom of the stairs four tall elves stood at the ready. They wore armour, silver-grey mail and billowing white cloaks. They had bows slung across their shoulders and large swords fastened in silver scabbards to their belts. In their hands they held tall spears with slightly curved heads, which glinted silverly and deadly in the glimmering light of lamps and stars.

Haldir walked ahead and talked to them. Then one of the guards put a small white horn to his lips and sounded a clear, bright call which was answered in kind from somewhere far above our heads.

Haldir came back to us. "This is the palace of the Lord and the Lady of Lórien. Though it is late, they wish to meet you at once. I will go first, then Frodo, and behind him Legolas. The others may follow as they wish. It is a long climb, but we will rest upon the way now and again for those of you with weary feet."

I favoured Haldir with a scathing look. But damn it, my feet hurt!  
I was sweaty and itchy from a long day's walk, my hair was tangled and I was so tired that I could not see straight. My jeans were torn and dirty, buttons were missing from my shirt, and the clothes were reeking.

Exactly the way I had always wanted to look when meeting elvish royalty.

It did not comfort me that the others – save Legolas – looked no better than I did, and Merry and Pippin looked a good deal worse from playing 'race you' on the meadows of Cerin Amroth, their clothes dishevelled and covered with grass stains.  
I was a girl, damn it. I wanted to look nice when I was introduced to the Lady in the Wood. Oh, hell, I wanted at least to be clean when I met the Lady Galadriel!

"Lothíriel, don't stand there dreaming, go on!" Aragorn's voice was impatient.

Boromir turned at once, ready to argue. Frantically I shook my head at him and ran for the stairs. The stairs were endless. Soon I had the feeling that I had been climbing stairs all day, and I was sweating like a pig. My right knee was on fire. Ever since my clumsy jump across that wide fissure in Moria, my right knee had been acting up on slopes and stairs.

_If wishes were horses all beggars would ride.  
What can't be cured must be endured.  
I bloody** hate** proverbs._

Finally we reached a great talan high in the tree. I was so dizzy with climbing that I stumbled and almost fell, my feet searching for the next step automatically. I regained my balance at the last moment. Haldir observed me with faint amusement gleaming in his eyes.

Oh, bugger.

My breath gradually going easier, I had a look around while we were waiting for the rest of the company to reach the platform. The talan was built in a branching of the tree trunk. The tree was branching into three limbs here, and each of these limbs was still as large as a tall tree all on its own, and I could see many more telain above my head.

**ooo**

The platform we were standing on now was huge. Perhaps not as large as an aircraft carrier, but close to it, or so it seemed to me, anyway. At the centre of the talan, surrounded by the three limbs of the tree, stood a great hall. It was built of white wood and opened to the south in a porch with many graceful arches. Soft light issued through those arcs, and behind them I glimpsed high walls hung with rich tapestries of red, gold and green.

Haldir led us into the hall.

It was the throne hall of the Galadhrim. The back of the hall and its sides were in part the living wood of the branching mallorn. At the back of the hall there were two thrones made of silver wood and their canopy was made of living branches, surprisingly delicate boughs growing directly from the broad pillar of the tree trunk, richly leaved in gold and silver.

A green carpet led up to the thrones. To the sides of the aisle long tables and many chairs were arranged, and there were many elves standing or sitting around. Most of them had blond hair, but there were also many Silvan elves with brown hair and green eyes. All of them were tall and slender and dressed richly in leggings and elegant robes.

The thrones were occupied by a tall elf-lord and an elvish lady.  
Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel.

They were very regal and imposing, clothed in flowing white robes. The contrast of the plain white colour of their robes to the many hues of the fabrics worn by the other elves in the hall set them apart from the rest of the elves. Although they wore no jewellery or crowns at all, you knew at a glance that they were king and queen of this land. Their hair was very long and gleamed like precious metal spun out into threads of gold and silver.

Lord Celeborn's silver tresses were intricately braided, but still reached way below his shoulders; his eyes were of a warm grey colour, and although his face looked probably younger than my own, his eyes betrayed a certain… not weariness, not age… but a profundity gained in many centuries of toil and trouble.

The Lady Galadriel wore her hair open. It was a of deep, rich golden colour like the sun's own fire, a warm colour, very different from the movie version, which was fading from my mind even as I was staring at the Queen of the Galadhrim. Her eyes were not blue or grey, but turquoise as a southern sea; they were very keen and slightly slanted. Her ears protruded from her mass of golden hair, and they were exceptionally sharply pointed.  
Galadriel did not look human at all. She looked like a dangerous creature from a species totally alien to humans, feral, with powers far beyond the grasp of the mortal mind.

I shivered suddenly with apprehension.  
What would she say to me? What would she do to me?  
I bit down on my lip so hard that it hurt, trying to drive the memory of the ring's evil insinuations from my mind.

Finally all members of the fellowship were assembled on the porch.

"I will present you to the Lord and Lady one by one," Haldir told us. "You walk up the aisle until you are at the chairs which have been made ready for you, then you bow, wait for the Lord and Lady to signal that you may be seated and then you sit down. Don't turn your back to the thrones and don't speak until you have been asked to." He turned gimlet eyes to the hobbits. Obviously he thought that they looked sufficiently intimidated because he turned around and walked up the aisle. He stopped at a row of ten chairs put up to the right of the aisle.  
He bowed deeply to the king and queen and stepped to the side.

In a deep and clear voice he called one member of the fellowship after the other to come forward and be presented to Celeborn and Galadriel. Lord Celeborn greeted every member of the fellowship courteously in slightly accented Westron, but the Lady only looked at us with her penetrating, fierce turquoise eyes.

Haldir started with Frodo, and then came Aragorn and so forth. He left me for last, giving me time to grow nervous as I waited for my turn. Should I try to curtsy or simply bow as the others had? I did not know if elvish common courtesy demanded that I curtsy. I did not know how to curtsy!

"And this is Lothíriel, a stranger from far away, who has been included in this journey according to Gandalf's explicit wishes," Haldir announced. Gandalf's explicit wishes, I thought. That was Aragorn's phrasing. I swallowed hard, my knees feeling like jelly. I felt like a ten year old asked to recite a poem in front of the whole class. I felt heat rising to my cheeks. Blushing like a little girl caught at a prank…

I breathed deeply and straightened my back.  
I had done my very best to help. I had done my best not to change what was necessary as far as I knew. Damn it, I had done my best!  
Suddenly I had reached the row of chairs where the others were already seated, looking more or less comfortable.

I bowed deeply, my heart pounding like a drum.

"Welcome, Lothíriel, in Lórien. You are truly brave, my lady, to have endured such a dark and dangerous road! Now rest at ease and relax, for you have to be very weary from your travails!"

I looked up at the Lord and Lady, a wobbly smile forming on my face.

Suddenly I felt myself caught in the powerful gaze of Galadriel.

If I had not known about the elves' ability to speak from mind to mind from Glorfindel, I think I would have fainted with shock. Her mind voice was not the soothing whisper Glorfindel had used when speaking to me that way, but piercingly sharp. Her power of will was unrelenting, strong as steel, similar to the ring's power. But where the ring was like an abyss of darkness suddenly opening in one's thoughts, the power of the Lady was like a flash of lightning, almost unbearably bright. It felt as if she was tearing into the depths of the very essence that made up Lothíriel. Nothing could be hidden from her eyes.

_Do not be afraid, Lothíriel. I will neither hurt you nor send you back. You did indeed do your very best on the journey. Be at ease now. There will be time for talking later, when you are rested._

I stumbled back to the chairs, slumping into the ninth chair. But my fears were eased and the haze of exhaustion had lifted from my eyes. I still felt very tired, but I could see the room and the faces around me clearly again.

"Here are only nine," Lord Celeborn said. "But there should be ten, or that was what the messages said sent out by Elrond. Was there a change of counsel after all? Darkness draws near, and my sight has grown limited."

"Nay," Galadriel said, her eyes still resting on me. "There was no change of counsel." Her voice was very clear, but not bright like the voice of her mind, but very deep and musical.  
"Gandalf the Grey was their leader. But he did not pass the borders of this land. I cannot see him anymore."

"Alas," Aragorn cried, his voice torn by anguish and grief. "All foresight seems to fail us. Gandalf the Grey fell into shadow. He remained in Moria and did not escape."

At Aragorn's words many of the assembled elves raised there voices in cries of grief and horror.

"These are evil tidings!" Lord Celeborn said, his voice shaking, its warmth drained away to expose a core of steal beneath his quiet demeanour. "Why was I not informed of this earlier?"  
He sent a glare at Haldir, who visibly wilted under the anger of his overlord.

Legolas rose from his seat and bowed to the thrones respectfully.  
"We have not spoken to Haldir of our journey. Danger and grief were too close behind, and we are very weary both of mind and body, my Lord."

"But our grief is great, and there is no way to mend the loss we suffered," Frodo added, and his bright voice was sad and tired. "Gandalf was our leader, and he fell to ensure our escape."

"Then tell us now the full tale of your journey," Celeborn ordered, turning to Aragorn.

The ranger inclined his head courteously. Even in his dirty and worn travelling clothes, his hair as straggly as my own, there was an air of majesty to Aragorn's figure. He told the tale of our journey in short, clipped sentences, his tone of voice cool and matter-of-fact.

When he ended, it was a long time until Celeborn spoke again. "Alas! We have known for a long time that a dark terror slept under the mountain of Caradhras. But it is ill news indeed that you have stirred up an evil of the ancient world on your passage through the mines. I might regret allowing you to enter these woods! Why do dwarves never know when to show restraint! I hope it was not unnecessary folly that led Gandalf into Moria. I hope no further evil comes of it, turning Gandalf's valour into needless sacrifice!"

"Do not be hasty in your judgment of Gandalf's deeds," Galadriel interrupted the Lord. "None of Gandalf's deeds were foolish. To judge a deed as unnecessary or needless, you need to know the full purpose and the whole story of the deed. And, sadly, this story is still far from its end, be it evil or good."

Then the Lady rose from her seat and went where Gimli was sitting. The dwarf had hung his head in shame, hiding his face. The Lady knelt down on the aisle to look the dwarf directly into the eye. "It is not this dwarf's fault that evil stirs again in Moria. And would we not wish to behold our beloved home of old again, even if it had become the abode of dragons?" Galadriel asked her voice filled with sadness. "Dark is the water of Kheled-zâram," she quoted the ancient hymn of the dwarves praising the beauty of their homes in Moria. "And cold are the springs of Kibil-nâla, and fair were the many-pillared halls of Khazad-dûm in Elder Days before the fall of the mighty kings beneath the stone."

Slowly the dwarf raised his head to look at the slender figure of the elvish Queen kneeling before him. Wonder spread across his face, and his eyes suddenly shone with tears.

Galadriel smiled at him and returning to her throne, she said in a kind voice, "Welcome, Gimli Glóin's son in the land of Lórien."

Gimli jumped up from his seat and bowed very low. "Thank you, my Lady, and I cherish this welcome more than any memory of the lost treasures of our ancient halls! For nothing is more fair than the living land of Lórien, and the Lady Galadriel is above all jewels of this earth."  
Silence fell, only interrupted by hushed exchanges of whispers among the elves crowding the hall.

At length Celeborn spoke again. "Forgive me if my words were unduly harsh. But the tidings you bring are truly dark and my heart is troubled. I will do what I can to aid your quest especially the smallest with the heaviest burden." And he looked at Frodo with pity in his eyes.

"Your quest is known to us," Galadriel said in a quiet voice looking directly at Frodo. "And though it stands upon the edge of a knife, there is still hope. Stray but a little and the quest will fail to the ruin of all. Yet hope remains while all the Company is true."

Having said that, the Lady looked at all the members of the fellowship in turn. To my relief she passed over me quickly. But she looked at Aragorn for a long time, and it seemed to be a small eternity that she gazed at Boromir. When she finally turned her gaze away from the warrior, he was trembling all over.

I swallowed dryly and looked at my feet. Boromir, I thought, poor Boromir. I wish I could help you.

When I finally looked up again, I saw that Aragorn was looking at me, and his gaze was cold. I looked down again quickly, feeling hot tears in my eyes, and this time I did not manage to blink them away but felt them running slowly down my cheeks.

"Do not let your hearts to be troubled," Galadriel said finally. "Tonight you shall sleep in peace."

"Go now," Celeborn added. "You are weary from your travels and much toil. Now you shall rest for a while, ere we talk of your quest once more."

The audience was over, and Haldir led us out of the Hall.

**ooo**

We did not sleep on the ground this night, but Haldir led us a few stairs back down the tree, where a few small houses had been built up against the smooth expanse of the trunk. "Guest houses," he explained.

Five rooms had been readied for us. I had my room to myself, but the others had to share their rooms. Frodo went with Sam, Merry with Pippin. Legolas asked Gimli if he would mind sharing a room with an elf. And Aragorn and Boromir took the room on the far side from the one appointed to me.

The room was small but clean. There was a real bed in it with white covers and cushions. On a chest of drawers was an ewer with cool, clear water and a large bowl for washing with a large, white towel neatly folded at its side. I dumped my backpack on the ground and undressed swiftly. Even though I felt tired to my bones, I took the time for a quick wash and brushed my teeth.

A real bed! Pure bliss!

I moaned with delight as I curled up among the warm, soft covers.  
Another difference to Tolkien's version. I grinned faintly. But I really liked this difference!  
I was asleep almost instantly, sleeping peacefully, without any dreams at all.


	19. Blame

**19. Blame**

I woke early in the morning, feeling completely rested,with my mind clear and full of hope.  
The washing water had been replaced during my sleep, and a silver beaker with juice was on the nightstand. I drained the beaker thirstily. The juice was tart and refreshing, but I could not tell if it was apple, or orange, or something else altogether. An elvish specialty, no doubt.

My dirty clothing had disappeared. Instead there was a pair of grey leggings, a white silken blouse and a silver tunic laid out on a stool for me. Before I tried on the clothes, I took the time to wash thoroughly. It was a bit awkward to wash my hair with ewer and bowl, but in the end my hair was more or less clean. I brushed the tangles out of my hair, now and then yelping when I had to tear through a knot. Then I used the last remains of my favourite body lotion and for once was completely clean and smelling sweetly of Laura Biagotti's "Roma".

Now. I took a deep breath. Those clothes. I held up the leggings doubtfully. I never wore leggings. I had thighs, for heaven's sake! But as my dirty clothes, which I had dumped onto the floor searching for my nightshirt yesterday evening, had disappeared one and all, hopefully only to be washed and not to be burned, there was no alternative to the leggings.  
At least they fit. They had to be tied together with a string, but I managed. The white blouse was long, hitting me at me mid-thigh, and the tunic, which opened at the front and was held together above my breasts by a golden chain, was the same length. The outfit was fairly comfortable even though there was no underwear.

Luckily I had forgotten to take off my bra the night before. Not that I was huge, but I did certainly feel uncomfortable without a bra. There was no mirror, but freshly scrubbed and with clean clothes I felt once more ready to take on the world, or at least to face the others and perhaps explore the city of Caras Galadhon.

I left my room, quietly closing the door behind me. From somewhere below I heard the bright laughter of a hobbit. And was that the smell of pancakes? Passing the other rooms on my way to the stairs, I heard a horrible noise coming from behind one of the doors. I stopped dead, listening with my heart suddenly pounding. What was that noise?

Then I relaxed, relieved – a broad grin spreading across my face. I was not the only one sleeping late. The noise was Gimli, still deep in dwarfish dreams, snoring like a wild boar (if wild boars snore). Though the sound was quite frightening, it was not really dangerous, I thought. Save perhaps for the poor fellow sharing Gimli's room.

On my way downstairs I figured out the layout of the guest house. It was a narrow building set directly against the trunk of the mallorn. The upper floor consisted of a corridor which ran the whole length of the building with a round window at either end of it. Six doors opened to the corridor, five guest rooms and through the open door at the end of the corridor I spotted what could only be a bathroom. Toilets and indoor-plumbing! Thank God!

**ooo**

The ground floor was one large room, which contained a long dinner table set for nine persons and a large fire place with several arm chairs arranged in front of it. At the dinner table Boromir and the hobbits were sitting, busily eating and drinking. The smell had been pancakes. And there was maple syrup to go with them. No, I thought. That would be mellyrn syrup around here. Aragorn was standing in the other part of the room, looking out of a large bay window. Legolas was nowhere in sight, and Gimli was still asleep upstairs. 

"Hi, Lothy, you sleepyhead!" Pippin called out to me. "Come quickly, or Sam will eat your pancakes."  
Sam looked up from his plate, which was really full of pancakes dripping with syrup. "I would never do something like that, Miss Lothíriel," he said, glaring at Pippin. "You know I'd never!"

I smiled and sat down on an empty chair next to Sam opposite from Boromir. The man smiled at me. He looked relaxed. Hopefully the elvish blessing which had allowed me to sleep peacefully and without fear had helped him, too. Frodo was quiet as usual, but he, too, looked less tense and pale. Merry had a bowl of fruit salad sprinkled with nuts on his plate. He was chewing busily.

"The tea is very good," Boromir said. "An herbal tea. But I don't recognize the ingredients. I find it very soothing."  
"I will try that," I said, holding out my cup. "Thanks!"

Boromir poured carefully. I inhaled the fragrant steam of the tea, trying to discern what herbs had been used. There was a hint of lemon and mint in it, but there was also hint of sweet blossoms, and a spicy, almost peppery taste in the background. I sipped at it and let the liquid roll slowly along my tongue, savouring the distinct aroma. It was soothing. It cleared the mind and lifted my heart.  
Suddenly I found myself smiling brightly at the man on the other side of the table.

"You should try the pancakes, Miss," Sam offered me a plate stacked with thick, golden pancakes.  
"I will. Thank you!" I agreed and helped myself to three pancakes, while my stomach grumbled indecently. Pip giggled and imitated a growling beast.

I ignored the silly hobbit and poured syrup on my pancakes. There was a bowl of what looked like raspberries and I added three generous spoonfuls to my plate.  
It was not maple syrup. It was sweet and golden, but it was… I cannot really describe it, spicier perhaps, deeply flavoured, with a hint of cinnamon.  
I ate in silence, content with listening to the talk of the others.

First the hobbits talked about their rooms and how they had slept. Sam was very taken with the bathroom, wondering where the waste of the toilet was going and then blushing red as a beet when he remembered my presence. But soon the talk turned to the audience of last night, and how they had felt under the power of the Lady's gaze.

"What did you blush for," Pippin asked Sam. "You looked as if you be caught in the act of … I don't know, something embarrassing. What was that you were thinking of? I hope it was nothing worse than putting a frog in my bed!"

Good idea, Pippin. If I can find a frog, it will wait for you come evening one of these days.  
But Sam was already blushing again, still not sure of himself in the company of gentle-hobbits and big people.  
"I never thought of such a thing, Mr. Pippin!" he said, and he continued in a serious voice. "It was as if she offered me a choice, as if I would be allowed to choose between going home and having my dearest wish come true, a garden of my own and…" He paused, and then quickly went on, unwilling to reveal all that he was dreaming of. "And going on, into the darkness."

"That's funny," Merry said, speaking around a large piece of apple. "That was what happened to me, too. As if I could have…" He stopped, just as Sam not wanting to tell what might tempt him. "As if I was offered a choice, anyway."

Boromir did not say anything, but his eyes were dark, and the lines of tension, which had been growing around his eyes and his mouth during the last weeks, deepened for an instance.  
He turned away from me, hiding his face.

She had offered no choice to me.

Confused I lifted my cup and drank deeply, hiding my face.

Boromir sighed and turned back to the table. "Whatever happened last night, I think that lady is both powerful and dangerous," Boromir told Pippin, his voice haunted.

Aragorn, who had remained at the window, apparently lost in thought, rounded angrily on the man. "Speak no evil of the Lady Galadriel! You don't know what you say! There is no evil in her or in this land unless a man brings it here, hidden in himself."

Frodo seemed to shrink back in his chair. I flinched, not having missed the stern look, when Aragorn had said 'man'. Boromir returned the look without blinking, his jaw set.

I would have to talk to Aragorn.

"Where is Legolas?" I asked, changing the subject.  
Merry sniggered, Pippin snorted bits of cereal across the table.  
"He… he…" They convulsed in giggles.  
Boromir looked at me, his face relaxing and a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.  
"The elf, it seems, was unfortunate in the choice of his room-mate. He left early, apparently desiring some peace and quiet."

From somewhere above our heads a strange strangled noise issued.  
Looking at one another, we promptly burst out laughing, the mood lightened once more.

Aragorn nodded at us and left the guest house without saying where he was off to.

**ooo**

"Would you care to spend the day with me?" Boromir asked, after an elf appeared and took the hobbits away for measuring them in order for supplying them with new clothes. 

I smiled at Boromir. The warrior had washed his hair and tied it into a neat braid at the nape of his neck. This way of dressing his hair brought out the clear and noble lines of his face, his thin, arrogant nose and his stubborn chin. In his own way he was as good looking as Aragorn.

"It would be a pleasure," I said, still not certain when it was proper to add a 'my lord'. There is not even such a thing as 'sir' in German; if we want to be polite, we say Mr. – or Mrs. X – we might say 'Doctor', but that's it for the most part – and don't ask me about German nobility. Most of the time we forget that there are any lords and ladies left in Germany.  
Boromir did not seem to mind that I had not said 'my lord'.

He offered me his arm and led me to the stairs leading down to the ground. I soon disentangled myself, preferring to walk on my own, and skipped ahead of him, looking forward to exploring the city.

It was beautiful. It was overwhelming. It was indescribable.

There were so many mellyrn growing here with houses and palaces built into their living wood. And there were also many buildings on the ground. Workshops for craftsmen, stables for horses, sheep, cows and goats (the only kind of animal we did not see were pigs), barns for supplies, inns and public baths.

Only the private quarters and the meeting halls and such like were built up into the treetops, the more mundane dwellings were on the ground, skilfully shaped to the natural rise and fall of the landscape. This reminded me strangely of the hobbit holes I had seen on our way out of Bree. Of course the elvish buildings were much more elegant, with intricate arcs and porches and terraces, but both the hobbits and the elves desired to blend in with their surroundings. Their architecture was subtle in style and soft in colours, not designed to show off power and wealth, but to be comfortable, beautiful and in tune with the living things of nature around them.

Although there seemed to be no such thing as money, there was a large market. Finally I gathered my courage and asked a young and friendly looking elf in blue robes about how things were done here. The elf apparently knew who we were and explained the procedures of elvish bartering to us; his Westron was heavily accented, but nevertheless clearly understandable.

It turned out that there was money, used for trading with humans and the elves of Mirkwood, but they preferred swapping a thing for a thing, or a skill for a skill. These transactions were codified, copied and sealed on small square pieces of parchments like a cheque.  
If both sides had fulfilled the deal, the parchment was destroyed.

Soon I was asking after laws and judges and precedents and other details. The elf answered every question precisely and with so much detail that finally I asked him if he was by chance a lawyer or a judge. It turned out that he had been both and was now working as a teacher of law.

"Although there are not many young ones to be taught, nowadays," he said his voice full of sadness.

"Why?" I asked, realizing that I had indeed seen no children at all, either here or in Rivendell.  
"Our time in Middle-earth is nearly over. Most couples have chosen to wait until we have returned to Aman, the Blessed Realm, to have children. I think in all of Caras Galadhon there are now only twenty-seven children left, and no babies have been born in a long, long time."  
Nemion, as the elf was called, sighed softly. But then he smiled at us. "But let us talk of happier things; these times are dark enough without an old teacher sighing for more pupils. Can I help you with anything else? Perhaps show you around?"

Boromir visibly relaxed during our animated talk, only now and again shaking his head in astonishment at my questions about elvish laws and customs and the elf's willing answers.  
Now he smiled at the elf, saying, "We would be honoured, my lord Nemion, but only if we don't keep you from any duties!"

"No, indeed you don't," Nemion replied. "I will gladly show you around."

**ooo**

As Lórien, such as it was then, has long since passed away, I won't give any details about the magical beauty of the heart of elvendom in Arda, which will never bloom again. 

But there were two highlights to the day, which I will never forget all my life.

Nemion took us to the Great Public Baths.

While there are smaller, more intimate baths separated by gender, the Great Baths are used by elves both male and female. Elves, being close to nature, don't use bathing suits, which was very interesting to say the least.

Elves don't have any body hair. They do have navels. I don't know if the first elves which woke at the mythical lake of Cuiviénen have navels, but those in the bath that day all had belly buttons. They seem to have more ribs than we have, which would account for them being so tall and slender. Nothing is short and chubby about them. There were very few elvish women, but the ones who were there looked like angels. They were almost as tall as the male elves, but more delicately in build, very slender, with no thighs to speak of and small, round breasts. They do have nipples, mammals, just like us apparently, but the nipples are the same moon-lit white colour as the rest of their skin.

I felt like a hippopotamus in comparison. An ugly hippopotamus.

But the swimming was nice, and the elves were very nice, too, polite and just as curious about us as we were about them. I enjoyed myself very much.

The main pool sported a large waterfall which was almost as icy as the Silverlode's spring underneath the Mirrormere. Boromir spent a long time under the waterfall. His lips were fairly blue when he finally, reluctantly emerged.

Afterwards Nemion took us to a museum of tapestries.

I never cared for tapestries back on earth. I thought they were boring.  
The tapestries of Lórien were different. They were colourful, detailed and alive. The images of people and animals were rendered so perfectly that they looked ready to leave their prison of woven threads at a word.

On earth I had never felt the slightest temptation to try my hands at needlework and the like, but seeing the tapestries of Lórien, I suddenly longed for learning how to make such an exquisite work of art myself.

But the tapestries were not only beautiful, they also showed many things of the history of Middle-earth and many legends loved by both elves and men.  
Boromir knew a lot about the shared histories of men and elves, and soon he was deep in talk with Nemion while I listened with growing fascination.

In the evening, Nemion invited us to dinner.

He lived close to the market place where we first met him in a small house up on the third talan from the ground of a medium sized mallorn. His wife, Fanya, was still with him, because they had a young daughter, who was still a teenager and not yet ready to leave for Aman. Fanya had very fair hair with a touch of curls, an unusual thing for an elf. The daughter was not in Lórien at the moment but visiting relatives at the Court of Thranduil, the King of Mirkwood. Both parents were worried about their daughter. She should have already returned months ago, but with the horror of the ring-wraiths so suddenly unleashed, it had been decided to wait until travelling would be less dangerous. Perhaps it would be years until they saw their daughter again.

Boromir was deeply touched by these ordinary worries of the elves. He even tried to soothe their worries, reassuring them that the Rohirrim were still firmly set against the enemy, and that the dwarves on the north-eastern side of Mirkwood had not been subdued yet either.  
Especially the Lady Fanya was relieved to hear of these allies against the Dark Lord, and Boromir was embarrassed at her enthusiastic gratefulness.

The meal was not extravagant, but delicious, a spicy stew of venison with roasted potatoes and green salad, and a deep red, dry wine to go with it.  
We sat talking until the stars were shining brightly and departed reluctantly, promising to be back during the next few days.

We walked back to the high plateau hand in hand, lost in thought, in companionable silence.  
It had been a wonderful, relaxed day, the shadows of our journey and the dire prospects of the quest briefly forgotten.

Very briefly.

When we entered the guest house, slightly out of breath from our climb, Aragorn was in the living room, waiting for us, and his expression was stern. Obviously he had not had a good day.

"Where do you come from? Where have you been all day?" he asked, even as Boromir closed the door behind us. I did not like his tone, and I felt Boromir grow tense behind me.  
Keep your temper, Lothíriel, I said in my mind, gritting my teeth. Keep your temper.

Although I wanted to ask how it came to be his business to interrogate us about how we had spent the day, I held my tongue. I knew just how much Aragorn grieved for Gandalf, how heavy the responsibility for the quest had to weigh on his shoulders and then there were his very own worries, about his fate as the heir of Elendil on top of everything else. I did not like the way he acted towards me, but I did, in a way, understand him.

Tightening my hold on Boromir's hand, silently asking him to let me do the talking, I replied evenly, "We explored the city. We met a nice elf, Nemion, who teaches law at the school of the Galadhrim, and he showed us around. Then he invited us to dinner. Afterwards we came right back here. Why? Has something happened?"  
"I don't believe you," Aragorn said curtly. "People here are not used to strangers. They would not invite unknown mortals into their home. Probably you crept away into the bushes again…"  
"How dare you!" Boromir exploded.  
"Boromir, no, stop." I jumped between the two men, who were ready to go at each other's throat at the least provocation. Boromir looked at me with blazing eyes. He really had to work at keeping that temper in check.  
"Stop, Boromir," I repeated softly. "Aragorn is mad at me for reasons that have nothing to do with you. Please, calm down."

Reluctantly Boromir stepped back, dropping his hands to his sides. But that did not seem to satisfy the enraged ranger.

"And why shouldn't I?" Aragorn hissed at me, displaying a flare of temper of his own.  
"I don't think we should discuss this issue in front of anyone else," I said as calmly as possible.  
"Why not?" Aragorn shot back, his eyes full of disappointment and bitterness. "He is no more trustworthy than you are!"

Boromir lunged wildly at Aragorn, only missing because I threw myself at him, clutching at him in a desperate embrace.

"Stop it, stop it," I cried, with little hope of making either of the men listen to me.

"Stop it! STOP IT AT ONCE!" A new voice called out to us from the stairway. It was the high voice of a hobbit. Frodo stood halfway down the stairs , looking at us full of shock, his blue eyes huge and frightened in his pale face.  
The last person I had wanted involved in this discussion of trustworthiness and personal virtue. Oh, bloody fucking hell!

But hearing Frodo's voice had an instantaneous effect on both Aragorn and Boromir. Boromir stumbled backwards as if struck by a hard blow across his face and left the guest house at once, running as if demons were at his heels, trying to catch him.

And probably they were.

I had not been angry at Aragorn before, only hurt by the fact that he was blaming me for Gandalf's fall. I could understand that he thought it inappropriate for us to sneak off into bushes for some shagging. Hell, here, and in this day and age, and under the circumstances we were in, it had not been appropriate, and I regretted it already.

But I was angry at him now.  
Very angry.

Why couldn't he see how hard it was for Boromir to withstand the ring?  
Why did he not see how hard Boromir was trying to fight the ring?

I rounded on Aragorn, finally losing my temper, too. "Damn you, Aragorn! Can't you see how the ring gets to Boromir?"  
Aragorn looked at me, his face white as a sheet, looking horrified.  
"I don't know why I did that," he whispered. "I am so sorry. I am so sorry, Lothíriel. I don't know what came over me!"  
"I know what it was," Frodo said, his voice shaking. "It's the ring. The ring is destroying everything and everyone."

The hobbit looked close to panic. What was worse, he was probably at least partly right in his assessment of the situation. But only in part.

"No, it's not the ring," I said, slowly turning to Frodo, afraid to frighten the hobbit even more. "Or it's not only the ring. Look, do you remember the 'Prancing Pony'?"  
Frodo nodded. "When you knew that the ring would slip on my finger before it happened."  
"Exactly," I said, "Aragorn thinks apparently that if I knew what would happen in Moria, I should have warned Gandalf, tried to prevent his… fall." I just could make myself from say 'death'. Gandalf would be alive. He would return. I simply had to believe that this was still going to happen, that I had not been meant to change this part of the story. After all, Gandalf had seen a shadow in his future. He had told me so himself. He had not wanted to know what would happen to him.

"And did you know?" Frodo asked, his face tense, his eyes too large in his pale face.  
I stared at Frodo for a moment. I did not want to answer his question. But I felt that I could not lie to him. I would perhaps have lied to Aragorn, but I could not lie to Frodo.

"Yes, I did," I said simply, not knowing what else to say.

There was a sharp intake of breath from Aragorn.

For a long time no one said anything, we stood in the twilight of Lórien's guest house, an almost tangible feeling of dread hanging in the air between us.

"And could you have changed it?" Frodo asked finally.

I swallowed hard. Could I have changed it? That was the wrong question to ask. But I felt that I could not tell them every thing they needed to know to ask the right question.  
What could I say? What could I say so that Frodo would not hate me? So that Aragorn would trust me again?  
No, I thought. That was not an issue here. Liking or trusting me was not important. There was more at stake here, now, tonight.  
Hope. Confidence.

"I don't know if I could have changed it," I answered honestly. "But Gandalf knew there was a shadow in his future. He knew it even when he entered Moria. I tried to tell him then…" I trailed off, my thoughts going back to my clumsy attempt at warning the wizard. "Look, Gandalf knew that I know about things. He told me to be careful with my knowledge."  
I turned to Aragorn, and I was pleading with him when I continued. "Aragorn, don't you remember? That was almost the first thing you said to me in Bree! That my knowledge is dangerous, that we may not know everything that is to happen, that we cannot know everything that will happen, or any reason behind things which happen to us!"

"It's different now, Lothíriel. We need a leader! We are lost without a leader," Aragorn said, his fears and his grief raw on his face.  
"We have a leader," I answered without thinking. "You are our leader. You were born to be a leader."  
"No, I am not!" Aragorn cried. "And besides, that's not the point! Don't you care at all?"

I am not going to cry, I thought. I am_so_ not going to cry.

"Of course I care!" I cried. "Aragorn, it was Gandalf who sent me here! It was Gandalf, who found me, when I had run away from a life that I hated! He told me that it was possible for me to find a place here, that I could belong here! Of course I care! There is a reason, why things happened as they did! But I can't tell you, because I am frightened to death that my telling you would prevent… things…" I trailed off, shocked at what I had almost blurted out, because I was so upset. If I told him now that Gandalf would return, but something had gone wrong, and he would not return…

I walked over to the fire place and slumped down on an easy chair. There had been no agonizing at all in Tolkien's books. Where the hell had this fucking mess come from all of a sudden? I put my face in my hands. I had had enough. I was so sick of this.

I felt a small warm hand on my arm. At the same time I felt the voice of the ring rising at the back of my mind. Frodo had walked up to me and his face was full of pity and compassion. How could he manage to be so kind with this horrible burden, I thought, and felt my throat constricting with the urge to weep away my pent up emotions.

The nagging voice at the back of my mind threatened to regain words.

_No_, I thought. _Not now. Not here. White walls. White walls and the blessing of the Lady!_  
Suddenly I remembered the blaze of turquoise eyes looking into the depths of my soul. Burning. Powerful.

The voice of the ring died down.

I opened my eyes again and looked at Frodo, who had apparently not noticed that the ring had tried to play with my mind.

"I believe you," Frodo said, as he had said once before in the 'Prancing Pony'.

"Thank you," I said softly. "It means more to me than I can ever say."  
I swallowed. "But would you mind going away? At least a few feet," I asked. I saw fear growing in Frodo's eyes. "Don't worry," I said quickly. "Glorfindel taught me how to shield my mind at Rivendell, and it works fairly well. But I am all upset at the moment. I don't have that much control." I glared at Aragorn, who was still standing next to the window, tall and grim in the twilight.

Frodo nodded wordlessly and backed away, inching towards Aragorn as if I was a ticking bomb. A ticking bomb! That's the way we had to appear to Frodo. He had to see every single one of us as already affected by the ring. And it was true, too. The ring was feeding our fears, our insecurities, trying to turn our anger and our anguish against us whenever it had the chance.

"Glorfindel taught you?" Aragorn asked suddenly, breaking the silence for the first time since I had returned to the guest house this evening with a more or less friendly or at least neutral voice.  
"Yes, Glorfindel taught me to shield my mind," I said, slightly exasperated. "You know how much time and effort he put in to train me! Sword fighting, and Sindarin, and caution with my knowledge, and all those visualizations against the power of the ring. He trusted me!" I added bitterly. "Has anyone of you ever thought to teach Boromir any mind-shielding?"

Aragorn looked at me, his face newly filled with anguish. "No," he said slowly. "I didn't. I never asked him… He made it plain that he did not trust me, that he did not like me. I never asked!" he broke off, despair in his voice. "Don't you see, Lothíriel, I am not a leader! My blood is weak, just like Isildur's blood!"

I rubbed a cold hand across my forehead. What the hell was I to say to Aragorn?  
And where was Boromir?

I said the first thing that came to my mind. "For heaven's sake, Aragorn! How many people do you need to tell you that you are going to be a fine king?"

No, no, no, that was the wrong approach. And I had to watch my big mouth.

"Arwen told you," I continued quickly, hoping that he would not notice my reference to the future. Frodo had noticed. He opened his mouth as if to ask a question and closed it again, when he noticed me looking at him. Aragorn looked up at me. The name of his beloved penetrating his gloom. "She did, didn't she? And Elrond did, too. Gandalf did. It was the first thing I heard Legolas say, back at the council. But it won't matter. And if God, Eru Himself, would tell you, you would not believe it. And you are right, too, in a way. Because the only thing that matters is, what you believe. If you believe that you can be our leader, then you will be. If you believe you can be king, you will be. If you believe that you will fail, you will. My people call that a self-fulfilling prophecy. If you are set on dooming yourself, you will probably succeed. But don't mind me saying that, please, but this is neither the time nor the place for that kind of shit. Oh, God damn it all to hell, Aragorn! We NEED you! All peoples of Middle-earth need you! And we trust in you! Don't you see that? Gandalf himself trusted in you!"

I am a failed law student, for heaven's sake! Not a therapist!  
I stared at Aragorn, waiting for a reaction.

Finally it was Frodo, who spoke again. "I trust in you, too, Aragorn," the hobbit said simply, extending his small hand to the ranger. Hesitatingly, Aragorn accepted the hobbit's hand.  
They stood that way for a long time, hand in hand, in the silvery light of many elvish lanterns shining through the window.

"Thank you," Aragorn said finally, his voice hoarse. "Thank you, both of you."

Frodo nodded. "I think I will go to bed now. Sam will already be wondering where I am. Good night, Aragorn. Good night, Lothy."  
He walked back to the stairs, taking care to give me a wide berth. That hurt, even though I had asked him myself to stay away from me.

He disappeared into the shadows of the stairs, and moments later I heard Sam's sleepy voice raised in a question, then the door was closed and the house was filled with quiet again.  
Aragorn sighed, and at long last sat down in one of the easy chairs at the fire place himself.

"I am sorry, Lothíriel," he said slowly. "I wish I could say I trust you completely, the way Frodo does. But I can't. It's so very hard to accept that you knew what would happen in Moria, and did nothing to change it, to prevent it. If Gandalf trusted you, and I believe he did, and if Glorfindel trusted you, and I can see that he did, teaching you the elvish ways to shield your soul from the enemy, I know that I should trust you, too. But I can't. And I can't trust Boromir."

I sighed. I could understand Aragorn, and I appreciated his honesty. I preferred his honest doubts to his cold looks. "You shouldn't trust Boromir."  
"How can YOU say something like that?" Aragorn cried, shocked.  
"Look, Aragorn, I know it was wrong to sleep with Boromir! It was not proper, and it was not the time and place for it. We were frightened, and grieving, both of us, but that's no excuse.  
And anyway, that's neither here nor there. I will not talk about what I know or what I don't know again. But even if I did not know anything at all, it's fairly obvious that Boromir's affected by the ring. For heaven's sake, if Glorfindel had not been teaching me day and night how to build walls of white stone in my mind, I would probably not be able to remember my name right now!" I paused, gathering courage to ask the question that had been burning in my mind since the afternoon on the bank of the Silverlode. "Do you think it's too late to teach him how to shield?"

Aragorn was silent for a long time. That in itself was answer enough.

But after a long time of silence he spoke again, and this time his voice was unexpectedly soft, and full of regret. "It is too late, Lothíriel. I know that. And you know it probably better than I do."

I rose from the chair and slowly walked to the door.

"Where are you going, Lothíriel?" Aragorn asked me.

"I am going to find Boromir," I answered, expecting to be reprimanded.  
But Aragorn did not say anything at all.

I stepped out into the starlit night and went to find my lover.


	20. Galadriel's Counsel

**20. Galadriel's Counsel**

I sighed softly into Boromir's chest. I loved the silky feeling of the hair on his chest against my cheeks. We had spent the night outside, in a pavilion hidden behind evergreen bushes at the edge of the formal gardens on the plateau of Galadriel's palace. The pavilion offered a magnificent view of the city and the surrounding woods. The day was dawning in soft pale colours, as if a giant hand had tinted the eastern sky in watercolours, a touch of red, a pale pink, a shimmering golden hue. It was not a magnificent sunrise, not awesome or glorious. It was a quiet sunrise, a peaceful dawn. From the humid earth beneath the great _mellyrn_ white and silver mists rose and slowly drifted up between the treetops, floated for moments above the woods and then swiftly melted away in the first rays of sun.

The elvish city was still asleep, but Lórien's birds were greeting the sun in a great warbling choir. The trees all around me were full of song, piping, trilling, carolling. On the head of a nearby statue carved from gleaming white stone a blackbird perched and was singing with the sweetest voice. A few feet away, in the lawn still wet with dew, one of Lady Galadriel's sleek grey cats was sitting, watching the bird intently with gleaming golden eyes. But she did not attack, merely sat very still, watching the bird in feline fascination.

Although it was only the end of January, we had not been cold.  
Perhaps we were by now simply used to sleeping out of doors, so that we did not even notice the cold anymore. Perhaps it was the elvish blessing alive in the golden woods of Lórien, the fading touches of an eternal summer that would soon be gone from the world. Or perhaps the heat of our bodies chased away the cold of the night.

Boromir was still asleep. Deeply asleep. In his sleep, his face was for once completely relaxed and unguarded. He looked so young in his sleep, much younger than the forty years of his age. He looked innocent and vulnerable. Lost in dreams which were for once bright and easy. Dreams which would never come true. It is so easy to write down phrases like "and the lines of many years of living a dangerous life of many hardships and battles were graven in his face" if you have never seen such a face. I never had seen such a face until I had met Aragorn. And now, Boromir.

The ring was taking its toll.  
Our night's desires had held the sharp edge of desperation.

**ooo**

The blackbird suddenly took wing, flying off into the dawn. The cat merrowed a greeting, arching its back and twirling its long, elegant tail. Seemingly out of thin air a figure cloaked in pale blue had materialized on the lawn behind the pavilion. The figure bent down and stroked the cat, and then the person straightened up and folded back the hood of the cloak. Golden hair braided into thousands of tiny braids fell across slender shoulders. Bright turquoise eyes gazed at me, their power veiled.

"Good morning, Lothíriel," the Lady Galadriel said to me in a soft voice as if she did not want to wake the sleeping warrior.  
I rose slowly, careful not to disturb Boromir's sleep. I walked out onto the lawn and bowed very low in front of the Lady. "My Lady."  
"Would you like to take a walk with me, Lothíriel? And perhaps join me for a light breakfast?" Galadriel asked, her voice low.

I glanced back at Boromir. I did not want him to be alone when he woke.  
The Lady caught my look and smiled at me. "Boromir Denethor's son will not wake ere we return, I promise."  
Then she turned and walked off to a narrow trail leading away from the formal gardens of the plateau. "Come, Lothíriel. There are things we have to talk about."  
I followed her, my heart pounding.

It was not that I did not trust her. But I had felt her power, and I was deeply in awe of her.  
It was hard to believe that she was the Lady Arwen's grandmother. Arwen was so much softer, so much more accessible… almost human in comparison.

"Yes," agreed Galadriel, who had apparently caught my thoughts. "My grandchild takes after her father, doesn't she?" For a moment her gaze darkened to a deep indigo hue as if she grew once more aware of a sorrow always present in her heart, but not always on her mind.  
She is worried about Elrond, I thought. How he will take it, when Arwen…

"Don't, Lothíriel," Galadriel interrupted my thoughts with a cool hand placed softly on my shoulder. "I will say, what others have said before: you are very perceptive. – There is no deceit in you at all; for that reason your thoughts lie open before me. And although I can still see further on the roads of destiny than others, there are places hidden from my sight, and evil may come of foreknowledge. Aragorn, Gandalf and Glorfindel were right when they cautioned you not to speak of your knowledge lightly. I ask you to guard your thoughts this morning."  
I gulped. How do you guard your thoughts? I thought nervously. Couldn't she just keep from looking?  
The elf-lady laughed softly. "I do keep from 'looking', Lothíriel! But the thoughts of mortals are much noisier than the thoughts of elves. I simply would not stumble inadvertently on things which should remain hidden. But be at ease, the Lady's power is still strong enough to interrupt any flow of thoughts ere it reveals too much – even if the Lady much desired that knowledge…"

Be at ease. That's easier said than done, I thought.

The Lady laughed again, probably having listened to that thought, too. Her laughter was bright with mirth, the sound of golden bells in a soft breeze.  
The way elves move and talk calls the strangest images and analogies to the mortal mind.

"This is my private garden," Galadriel told me, as she led me down the hill on a winding path of firm brown earth. The edges of the path were grown with moss, grass and ferns, but the path itself was free from weeds, bare, dry earth, although all around the leaves were still glittering wetly with dew.

The garden of the plateau was a formal garden. Galadriel's own garden was not. It reminded me of English landscaped gardens. But where on earth even the most skilfully planted landscaped garden still betrayed the touches of the gardener – sowing, shaping, ploughing, clearing –, this was a garden shaped by the power of the Eldar. It was nature in its untouched perfection. Each leaf, each blossom, each shrub and each tree showed its loveliness, its textures and colours, in the best possible way of its own accord, thus creating a vision of nature unsurpassed in beauty and harmony anywhere in Middle-earth.

I felt at peace with the world, walking down the path behind Galadriel. The golden rays of the morning sun were slanting through the golden leaves of the mellyrn above us, filling the forest with a golden light. In this sheltered garden spring was already on its way, shrubs and bushes were budding, moss, grass and the new, curling shoots of fern were glowing with the emerald green of new life.

**ooo**

Finally we came to a flight of stairs leading down into a dell. Under a rocky ledge a bench of grey marble was set, forming half a circle. At the feet of the bench snowdrops were blooming among dark green moss. Across from the bench was a deep fissure in the hill. In this cleft a rivulet of crystal clear, icy water was murmuring. The stream that fed the fountains on the plateau, probably. Five feet above the floor of the dell a ledge had been built to hinder the flow of the water. It was held in a deep pool of rocks grown with fern, long grasses and tiny silver flowers. From there the water dropped in a thin veil across the ledge of grey stones. At the foot of the waterfall a low bridge had been built of the same grey stones which had been used to create this miniature fall. Under the bridge a pool of dark green water could be glimpsed; from this pool the river disappeared from sight, being led away into the city and the woods below the ground. To the right of the waterfall a terrace had been built, fashioned into a half circle to mirror the bench on the other side of the dell. On this terrace was a pedestal of smooth grey stone which was carved like a branching tree. In the top of this tree made of stone a silver basin was set, and at the foot of the pedestal stood a silver ewer.

This was the sanctuary of the Lady Galadriel in Lothlórien.  
The basin was her mirror, which could show her things far away in time and space.

She led me to the bench and motioned for me to sit down.  
"There is nothing my mirror could show you," she said kindly.  
"I would not want to look anyway," I said. Foresight sucks.  
She laughed at me then.  
"Yes, it does," she agreed, and her eyes sparkled with mirth.

The Lady reached under the bench with one slender, white hand and produced a pale white wicker basket. "Breakfast," she said. "Honey cakes and the remaining sweet berries of autumn last year, orange juice and water from Galadriel's spring. Not a Hobbit feast."  
"I am not a Hobbit," I said.  
"I know," the elf-lady said, her voice bright and cheerful.  
She laid a white kerchief on the bench between us and set out two silver dishes and four beakers, and then added a plate with rich golden honey cakes. After she had poured yellow juice from a silver flask, she swiftly walked over to the pedestal and picked up the silver ewer. She filled it with water at the fall and brought it back to the bench, where she poured some of the water into the two remaining beakers.

I felt a bit nervous. I had never even dreamed of sharing an intimate breakfast with royalty, least of all elvish royalty. Galadriel raised her delicately slanted, golden eyebrows at me, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "Eat, child! I invited you to have breakfast with me so that you would not feel nervous or overwhelmed. Now, be at ease and eat!"

"Your wish is my command," I said at my driest. Galadriel laughed again, a carefree, joyous laughter, I would not have thought possible in this powerful, intimidating immortal.  
I did manage to eat a honey cake and to enjoy the tart, fruity taste of the orange juice after that. But it was the taste of the water that will stay with me no matter how old I will grow.  
It was cool and clear and refreshing. But it was also golden and spicy, sparkling in my mouth and exhilarating as champagne. If you could turn a spring morning into liquid, you would have a taste of Galadriel's spring.

When she had put the dishes and beakers back into the basket and returned the basket under the bench, my nervousness had finally passed. I felt not quite as intimidated by the Lady as I had felt before. I did realize that Galadriel had gone to considerable lengths to put me at ease.

"Now we need to talk about you, Lothíriel." Galadriel said. I nodded. "I know where you come from."

I started at that, staring at her in surprise.

She smiled soothingly. "Gandalf told me. He has visited your world before, though I do not know to what purpose. But he has been aware that our worlds are linked mysteriously, that our histories and legends are passed on in your world as tales. However, he did not dare to read those tales himself, acutely aware of the vulnerable balance of fate; in this world as well as in the world you come from. I think by now you know just how dangerous and difficult foreknowledge can be. Even for immortals it is difficult to discern, which deeds and omissions lead to the one end or the other. But Gandalf often wondered why it was that our worlds are linked like that, for chance it is surely not, but fate. Why he was in your world when you met him, I cannot tell; private dealings of his own, no doubt. Perhaps a short respite from his struggles. When he met you on that hill, and you told him your name and your desire to find your destiny, he knew that it was more than good fortune that had led you to meet each other, then and there. He believed from the start that your fate lies in this world."  
She paused for a moment. "I was not sure of this. To travel the void is dangerous. Too easily the balance of Eä is disturbed. Worlds may be destroyed by a misstep between them."

I gulped nervously.

"Do not worry, Lothíriel, for Gandalf was right; his eyes were always keen, and he could read the other races deeper than elves. I can see a part of your way in your eyes. Your road is dark and dangerous, as all roads are in Middle-earth at the end of the third age. But it ends, whenever that will be, in Middle-earth. If nothing else is sure in this moment of time, this I know: your place is truly here. And you have earned your place by courage and care."  
I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment. I had not done anything much. I did not deserve such high praise from such a high lady.  
"Thank you, my Lady," I murmured.  
"I cannot see much from this moment in time; the tides of time are turning, and each step of the way holds dark choices. Therefore there is little I can offer you in the way of counsel. Perhaps this, though you may already know this truth yourself. A woman's way may be unobtrusive, and her deeds of valour may not be remembered in song; but words spoken in discretion and kindness may sway even great decisions of life and death."  
Silence fell, and for a moment Galadriel stared unseeing into the distance.

At last she spoke again. "Yes," she said softly, smiling faintly. "Even now Aragorn is thinking about wise words offered by a failed law student. He will find his strength."  
She turned to me again. "But veiled words of wisdom may not comfort you in future grief."  
I knew she was talking about Boromir now, and felt tears well up in my eyes.

_I did not love him yet.  
Love takes time to grow, I think.  
But I might have, had we been allowed the time._

Galadriel looked at me and her face was soft with pity. "As a firstborn, I cannot fully comprehend the gift of men, but this I know: Eru, the One, will not let a noble soul fall into darkness and be lost. Souls can be saved, Lothíriel, even when lives are lost. And comfort may be found in unlikely places."

_I would miss him so much._

"Now it is time for you to return to the pavilion. Boromir stirs; he will wake soon. Stay away from Frodo, and you will have a few days' peace under golden trees."

"Thank you, my Lady," I said, my voice choked with tears. "We will."

"I know. May the blessings of the Valar and the One guide your steps and your tongue."  
I rose from the bench and bowed to her clumsily. Then I turned onto the path which would lead me back up the hill to the plateau of the palace gardens.  
"And don't come back here tonight for Frodo and Sam will wish to look into my mirror."

I turned around and looked back. "I won't, my Lady," I said, bowing again.

She smiled at me and lifted her hand in farewell. The morning sun glinted on her golden braids and her bright eyes gleamed like jewels. For a moment I thought I saw a white star blaze on her hand, but when she lowered her hand, I saw that it had only been the sun slanting down through the trees, which had reflected on the silver surface of the mirror's basin.

**ooo**

Galadriel's counsel had eased my fears, and the remaining days in Lórien passed for Boromir and me much as they are described in the books: _all the while that they dwelt there the sun shone clear, save for a gentle rain that fell at times, and passed away to leave all things fresh and clean; and though it seemed to them that they did little but eat and drink and rest and walk among the trees, it was enough._

It was all we ever had.  
**  
**

** ooo**

Then, one night in the middle of February, we were summoned again to the palace of the Lord and the Lady of Lórien.

Our sojourn in the golden wood was nearing its end. Dark roads were waiting for us.

Celeborn talked to us about which course we would take from here. Boromir wanted to follow the Anduin on its western shore and head for Minas Tirith. Aragorn was doubtful of any course. I did not offer any ideas. In the end, Celeborn offered to furnish us with boats, so we might travel swiftly, carried by the strong currents of the Anduin.

Both Aragorn and Boromir thought that this was a good idea, and both of them knew how to handle boats. Legolas was an expert boat's man, as the forest river of Mirkwood was swift and dangerous, and I had at least done some canoeing during almost forgotten summer holidays. Although Frodo, Sam, Pippin and Gimli were afraid of travelling in the small grey boats on the great river, all of them agreed that the river was our best bet for the time being.  
So it was decided that we should leave the following day, the sixteenth of February 3019.

This last night we spent again in the guest house. I slept well and peacefully without any dreams at all. But when I saw Boromir in the morning, I knew that he had not slept at all. His movements were jerky, and his eyes gleamed feverishly. His manner was fierce and he was cold and strangely angry with me.

The voice of the ring was back in Boromir's mind, and he had no way to fight it.  
I forced myself to remain calm and kept my distance.  
I caught Frodo watching Boromir with apprehension.  
**  
**

** ooo**

After breakfast elves who could speak our language came to us. They brought many gifts of food and clothing for our journey, including my old clothes, cleaned and mended.  
Gimli and the hobbits had an epiphany eating_ lembas_; and belly ache for the rest of the day.  
I tried only a small piece of the elvish waybread. It was truly an elvish bakery, lifting the heart as much as it gave strength to the body.

Each of us was presented with a cloak spun of the silk of the Galadhrim. The cloaks were just as light and warm as Tolkien had described them and their changing hues reminded me of the camouflage technique of earthly chameleons. We would need this stealth.  
High honour was bestowed upon us with these cloaks, for we were told that the Lady herself and her handmaidens had woven the fabric and that we were the first strangers in all the ages of Middle-earth to be garbed in Lórien's silk.

My fingers kept returning to the brooch which fastened the cloak at my neck. It was very beautiful. It looked like a real, green leaf veined faintly with silver. It reminded me of the morning the Lady Galadriel had invited me to share her breakfast, and of Boromir's face as he had slept that morning, relaxed and at peace.

When we climbed down from the guest house, we found Haldir waiting for us at the fountains. He would be our guide to the river. He had come during the night from the northern borders, and his news was ominous. The earth was trembling in the Dimrill Dale, and the valley was filled with mists and noxious fumes. Even if we had wanted to, we could not have retraced our steps that way. For now there was no safe way across the Misty Mountains for at least sixty miles to the North and as much again to the South.

It was as if the elves of Caras Galadhon knew that evil was passing through their streets and out of Lothlórien today. As we walked along the streets of the great elvish city, they were deserted, but from above our heads songs of prayer were drifting down to us, accompanying us to the great gates.

We passed through the gates and crossed the white bridge. We turned left on the whitely paved road, which we had used coming here. But after only half a mile, we left the road, taking a path southwards and eastwards, walking down softly sloping woodlands of silvery mellyrn until we reached the river.

Early in the afternoon we suddenly reached the south-eastern edge of Lothlórien, the confluence of the Silverlode and the Anduin, where elanor bloom brightly in the sunny lawns.  
At a distance in the East I thought I could see the shadow of another, darker wood, but the banks of the rivers were bare, and I knew that there were no mallorn trees beyond the rivers in any direction, be it North, East or South. And far behind us, in the West the Misty Mountains loomed, their peaks hidden in low, grey clouds.

At some distance of the merging of the streams, a quay was built at the banks of the Silverlode. Many boats and barges were moored there. Some of them were painted in rich colours and decorated with silver and gold but most were plain, white or grey.  
There were three boats made ready for us, one of them a little larger than the other two.  
Elves waited at the quay for us and helped us stow away our baggage, supplying each boat with an additional coil of rope, which delighted Sam. Yes, we could have used some rope in Moria, I thought. And it would not come amiss on the river, either.  
I was put with Legolas, Gimli and the supplies in the largest boat. Aragorn, Frodo and Sam were in one of the smaller boats, Boromir, Merry and Pippin in the other.

We were ready to go too soon.  
We said good-bye to Haldir and the other elves and climbed into the boats.  
Within a few short moments the river carried us out of sight of the golden woods.

**ooo**

But when the river swept us around a bend, we almost collided with a great white barge shaped like a swan. I felt tears stinging in the corners of my eyes. I had forgotten that Celeborn and Galadriel would meet the fellowship on the river to bid their farewells.  
Out boats were towed back to the shore, and on the lawns of Egladil a parting feats was held in our honour. And although Galadriel was just as beautiful as she had been on the first evening, and just as joyful as she had been the morning she had invited me to the breakfast in her garden, somehow she had changed, almost as if she was not as tall as she had been, somehow distant, almost intangible.  
Her time in Middle-earth was almost over, I thought.  
She is ready to go home, to Aman.  
At that thought, the Lady lifted her head and looked at me with her clear turquoise eyes; she smiled at me softly and inclined her head in agreement.

After the feast, Celeborn walked with Boromir and Aragorn to the edge of the river, discussing once more the dangers of the countries that lay beyond the rivers.  
They returned shortly, their faces grave and serious.

It was time to say farewell.

Galadriel offered a great goblet with water from her spring to each member of the fellowship in turn, and then she drank from it and afterwards passed it to the Lord Celeborn.  
She called it the cup of farewell.  
The draught of this water was as sweet as it had been at her spring, and it lifted my heart. I had felt happy and at home in Lórien. If it had been possible at all, I should have liked to stay.

Galadriel had brought gifts of farewell for us, just as it had been described in the books, and as I had seen it in the movies. But she had every member of the fellowship come to her alone, so the others could not hear the words that went with each gift.

To Aragorn she gave a scabbard for Andúril. It was beautifully crafted, and even to the most unobservant eye the elvish blessing worked into it had to be apparent. But she also gave him a silver eagle brooch with a great green jewel, and though I was not close enough to understand what she said to Aragorn, I knew what it was. The Elessar, the elfstone, the stone from whence the coming king of Gondor would take his name.

Boromir received a golden belt, but his hands were trembling when he fastened it.  
To Legolas she gave a beautiful bow and a quiver filled with white arrows. His face was solemn, but his eyes were filled with pleasure as he bowed deeply to the lady in the wood.

Merry and Pippin got small silver belts, and Sam a small wooden box, but I could not remember what was inside it. Something to do with his garden, I thought, but I wasn't sure.

To Frodo she gave a phial filled with the light of Eärendil, the elves' most beloved star.  
I knew he would need it sorely, and a cold shiver ran down my spine. I hoped that my road would not lead into Mordor.

Then it was my turn to go to the Lady. She took my hands and held them. After what seemed to me a long time, she stroked my head with her right. "Do not despair, Lothíriel," she said. "Remember what I told you the other morning."  
Then she handed me a small book bound in brown leather. "This notebook contains some of the lore and laws of the Galadhrim. There is room on each side for comments. Maybe there will come a time when you have need of such wisdom."

I thanked her, gratified beyond bounds, but confused at the choice of the present.

The last member of the fellowship to go to the Lady was Gimli.  
She bent down to him, a friendly smile on her lips, talking to him in a low voice.  
Gimli bent his head in awe of the Lady and answered softly.  
At his words she smiled and straightened up.

"Hear, all ye Elves," she called out, and the gathered Elves turned their heads to their Queen and the dwarf. "Let none say that Dwarves are grasping and ungracious! Where all his companions have received precious gifts, Gimli, son of Glóin, declines, content with the blessing of his few days under golden trees."  
Then she looked down at the dwarf, her face alight with a smile of joy and kindness.  
"But surely, Gimli, elf-friend, there is something you desire that I could give you! Name it, I bid you, you shall not be the only guest leaving without a gift."

This time, Gimli answered loud enough that I could understand what he was saying. He was blushing hotly, and his usually firm and gruff voice was soft and stammering.  
"There is nothing, really," he paused, visibly gathering his courage. "Nothing, but – no, that I could not – unless I might be permitted to ask, nay, to name – a single strand of your golden hair, for it is to gold of the earth as the stars in the sky to jewels found in mines. But… I know I may not, I could not ever ask for such a gift. But you commanded me to name my desire, and I would never disobey my Lady." He bowed deeply and then tried to walk back to us. But the Lady Galadriel halted him with a soft touch of her hand on his shoulder.

The elves all around us were stirring, whispering and murmuring among themselves, astonishment almost touchable in the air. But Celeborn smiled, lost in memories, as he looked at the dwarf, who seemed to wish to be able to vanish into thin air, so embarrassed was the fierce and sturdy mountain-dweller.

"And again I say, ye Elves listen! Here is a dwarf with as much skill of tongue as of hands! For none have ever made to me a request so bold and yet so courteous. And how shall I refuse, since I commanded him to speak. But pray, dear friend Gimli, what would you do with such a gift? Please, tell me!"

"Treasure it," the dwarf blurted out. "Treasure it in memory of your kind words at our first meeting. And should I ever return to the smithies of my home under the mountain, I will set it into imperishable crystal. It shall be an heirloom of my house and a pledge of good will between the Mountain and the Wood until the end of days."

And even as the dwarf spoke, Galadriel took a small silver knife from her belt and cut off the tiniest of the thousands of braids into which her hair had be woven for today. Then she secured the open end of the braid with a thin silver ribbon, and curled up the braid with nimble fingers. When she laid it carefully into Gimli's hands, it looked as if she handed him a golden brooch with an intricate elvish design. But when the sun hit the braid, it gleamed in the light like something alive and warm and did not look like anything ever made from dead and cold metal.

"And these words shall go with the gift," Galadriel added, her voice dark and deep.  
"Caught between light and darkness, as we are, all foretelling is now in vain. But if hope should not fail, this will be true for Gimli son of Glóin: your hands shall flow over with gold, and yet gold shall never have dominion over your heart."

Gimli, by now beyond blushing, bowed so low that his red beard touched the grass. With trembling hands he wrapped his precious gift in a silken kerchief and put it securely in his belt pouch. When he turned back to us, I could see that he was crying, and he did not even try to hide his tears.

The Lady Galadriel and the Lord Celeborn then bid us farewell and escorted us back to our boats. We climbed in and slid out onto the river.

From my position in the boat I could see the Lady as she stood on the bank of the Silverlode, looking after us, and it seemed to me that there were silvery trails of tears on her cheeks, too.  
As the strong currents gripped our boats and carried them away towards the Anduin, the voice of Galadriel drifted to us from the Egladil.

She sang an ancient song of farewell in Quenya, a prayer to Varda, goddess of stars; a sung blessing to speed our journey and grant us safety.

The dark, beautiful voice of the Lady in the Wood accompanied us for a long time after the last glimpse of the golden woods of Lórien had disappeared in the silvery mists of the horizon.

Sometimes I still remember her song in my dreams.

**oooOooo**

* * *

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JunoMagic


	21. On the River

**21. On the River**

I think all of us were bad-tempered the first three days out of Lórien. Well, with the possible exception of Gimli. He did not talk but just sat there, smiling sweetly... Yes, dwarves can do that, although it is difficult to recognize because of the beard. But I spent a good part of each day facing him in the boat, so I had time to take a good look. He _did_ smile sweetly.

Now, why did I spend a part of each day looking in the wrong direction?

Simple. The muscles of my arms were not up to paddling all day. Although I _could_ walk all day by now and I also had gained _some_ strength in my arms from sword fighting, I did not have sufficient strength for paddling more than three hours at a time.

Also, Aragorn announced that for the time being we would take things easy. Easy according to Aragorn of course reads: paddle four hours, rest for half an hour; paddle another three hours, rest for an hour; paddle three hours, rest for half an hour; paddle another three hours and simply collapse as soon as you reach the river banks.

I guess it _was_ easy for the hobbits.

But they did not have to paddle at all.

Legolas preferred to partner me, because Gimli kept disrupting the rhythm of paddling. At every break the elf made us change places so that altogether I had to paddle six hours a day.

Although the currents of the Anduin swept us along smoothly, it was hard work to keep our course, that is, to stay in the middle of the river, and that meant paddling, paddling, arms like lead, blisters on you hands...

And Aragorn had no _athelas_ salve left.

Tolkien said about those first days on the river: _The dull grey hours passed without event.  
_  
There is really _nothing_ to add to that sentiment. Except that I really regretted that Aragorn had no _athelas_ salve left.

**ooo**

On the third day the landscape both on the eastern and on the western banks began to change noticeably. 

For the first three days the western shores had been graced with trees yet. No mellyrn, of course, but willows, elms and ash-trees, as far as I could discern. On the third day, however, these last straggling remains of woodland dwindled to green plains.

The eastern shores were desolate and barren from the beginning. On that side of the river was nothing but slopes of brown and withered country with no bush or tree to break the monotony of the landscape at all.

The plains on the western shores were at least green, and it was deep, rich green of high grasses lush with spring. I recalled the maps I had studied at Rivendell. To the east, the lands were aptly called the 'Brown Lands', and the shadow at the horizon behind them was Southern Mirkwood and the evil fortress of Dol Guldur. But to the west, that was the country of Rohan, the Riddermark. Rohan once was a province of Gondor, but it was given to Eorl to hold in his own name after a great battle long ago.

I had read a translation of the Deed of Calenardhon at Rivendell. It had been difficult to read for me, because my knowledge of even the most common elvish runes was sketchy despite Glorfindel's best efforts. But it had been one of those strange moments here in Middle-earth when a small matter made my heart race. It made my heart race, because it made me realize once again that all of this was _real_: this was a _real_ world, with _real_ history and _real_ laws.

I recalled staring at the curling piece of parchment, then raising my head and looking at the beautifully grained wood of the bookshelves of Rivendell's library. The wood of the bookshelves was dark with purple highlights, the shelves intricately carved in abstract flowing designs. It had been very quiet in the library that afternoon with that atmosphere of reverence inspired by the accumulated wisdom of thousands of books. I remembered how the sunlight slanted into the room, hitting the other end of the long table where I sat, the bright beam of sunlight filled with tiny, glittering motes of dust. From somewhere outside the whisper of elvish voices rose up, the beautiful lilt of Sindarin like faint music in the background...

**ooo**

"Lothíriel, watch what you are doing with your paddle," Legolas interrupted my daydreaming. 

I jumped my heart in my mouth. I almost lost my paddle.

"Sorry," I said, my heart pounding, heat suffusing my face.

I turned my attention back to the paddle, the boat and the water.

Today the paddling was easier for me. My body had apparently adjusted to this new kind of exercise. I got used to paddling much quicker than to walking. Perhaps I was just that much fitter. Well, after all we had come through, it was hard _not_ to be fit. It was either fit or dead; Darwin at his best.

Before us, Boromir drove his boat with hard strokes through the water, closing in on Aragorn, then letting his boat drift back again. Even from twenty feet away I could see the tension in his body. At night he would not talk to me or the others but kept his distance. He did not eat and, as far as I could tell, he did not sleep. His movements were jerky, his eyes gleaming with a strange wild fire. Merry and Pippin were afraid of him. Frodo was watching him constantly, obviously growing nervous and shivery himself. It was as if we were traveling with two drug addicts. It was only a question of time until the desire for the drug would overwhelm their sanity. I decided that I would try and talk to Boromir tonight. I knew deep inside that it would not help, but I would try anyway.

The country around was empty and lonely and there did not seem to be any animals apart from the birds. But there were many birds. Water fowl, which lived in the large stretches of reeds growing at the western banks, small song birds, but also ducks and herons, and once I even saw a kingfisher, lithe and silver-blue.

I grew very tired towards the evening. The paddle seemed to be heavy as lead in my hands. My eyes were tired from looking at the swiftly flowing currents all day, and I felt sick from the rocking motion of the boat. I started counting my movements, counting each dip of the paddle into the river. Would we stop for the night before I reached one thousand? Two thousand?

Suddenly there was a great rushing sound in the air above us, and I almost lost the paddle again, ducking to the floor of the boat to hide from any danger. Winged nazgûl! Was that here? But when nothing happened I dared to look up at the sky. There was only a great phalanx of black swans passing over our heads, flying into the west. Their mournful honking cries echoed around us.

"Black swans," Legolas said softly behind me. "They are said to carry the souls of the dead to Eru's halls." I shivered. If you are traveling with men, elves, dwarves and hobbits, you can count on a sad tale concerning any animal or plant or rock you pass on your way. But the cries of the swans were indeed harsh and full of sorrow in these dark and dreary lands, and the times were just as dark and dreary as these lands.

I felt naked in this small boat on the open river, insecure, with no shelter at all from inimical eyes. Sometimes I had the feeling that I was being watched, as if unfriendly eyes were looking at me from somewhere behind. I remembered that according to the books Gollum was following us since Moria. I never noticed anything, of course, being a complete failure as a ranger - even one out of Erlangen - but that did not necessarily mean Gollum was not there, somewhere.

Oh, how I wished for this day to end!

Oh, how I wanted to go to sleep and escape this gloom!

Finally we stopped for the night.

We did not risk lighting a fire because there was no way to hide the smoke. It would have been easy to see for miles around. Our dinner consisted of Lembas, water and a few bits of dried fruit to add some variety to the taste of the elvish waybread.

Boromir had put his things down a few feet away from the others. Now he sat with his knees drawn up, staring across the river. His lips moved now and then.

Frodo and Aragorn shared the first watch. They were huddled at the edge of the river, looking fixedly out on the water as if they were trying to discern some movement in the night.

Gollum. They were probably trying to find Gollum.

I felt an unreasonable anger rise in my heart. All and sundry were being drawn by the ring. I was so sick of this ring. I felt the insane urge to scream something like 'the ring is here, the ring is here, come and get it' or rip it off Frodo's neck and simply throw it into the Anduin.

It's the ring, I thought. It does not only feed our fears, it plays with our dreams and turns them into strange urges and desires. How can anyone still know what is real and what is not in the vicinity of the ring?

I sat down on my sleeping bag and thought of white walls and a blue sky as Glorfindel had taught me to do. This made me remember Rivendell and Glorfindel, and suddenly I felt close to crying. It was so far away! So many days of travel through dark and hostile lands. Dark and hostile lands all around me...

No, I tried to calm myself. Rohan is not hostile. Rohan... Rohan and Fangorn! Gandalf will return! Finally a happy thought. Hold on to that thought, Lothíriel. Gandalf _will_ return!

The thought gave me the courage to approach Boromir. I walked over to where Boromir sat, glowering.

"May I sit down?" I asked politely. He did not look at me, but nodded. He had acted all day as if I was a stranger, as if we had never shared anything. I knew that his sanity was failing. I knew that it wasn't Boromir, who was suddenly so cold and quick to anger, but a stranger who had been drawn from the weaknesses of the man I had shared desperate nights of desire and hidden touches with. But this knowledge did not really help. It still hurt.

Boromir was pale; his hair was tangled and sweaty. When he pushed the dark trails away from his forehead, his hand trembled. He suddenly turned his head around to face me, and I could see that it was difficult for him to focus his eyes. What did he see when he looked at me?

An icy shiver ran down my spine. I wasn't sure I wanted to know what he was seeing.

"What do you want?" he hissed at me.

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding without reason. "I wanted to ask how you are. That is all."

He glared at me. No, not at me. He was looking at the air just next to me. I was scared suddenly. I felt goose bumps all over my arms, and the back of my neck prickled.

"Fine. I am fine. Now leave me alone!"

"Okay, I am leaving. Please, don't get upset." I rose to my feet. I looked at the shivering man with the feverish eyes before me and I felt sickened. Where was the gentle warrior who had made love to me in Lórien?

"Boromir," I whispered and I hated it that my voice was shaking. "It's the ring. You have to fight it. You can fight it. Nothing of it is real. You are stronger than the ring. Please, don't give up! I believe in you!"

But Boromir narrowed his eyes to angry slits, and his handsome face was drawn into a furious grimace as he hissed at me again.

"Just leave me alone! Give me a moment's peace!"

I turned around and ran back to the others, tears running down my cheek, lightheaded with hurt feelings and fear. He was already on the verge of being dangerous. Galadriel and Aragorn were right. It was too late for Boromir. He would try to take the ring. I only hoped that Frodo would be quick enough to escape him. I only prayed that Boromir would throw off the hold of the ring after his ill-fated attempt to get the ring from Frodo.

And the orcs... was there no way to escape from the orcs?

Could I help Merry and Pippin hide from the orcs?

Or would that endanger Frodo?

Would _I_ be able to hide from the orcs?

My stomach cramped at the thought. I crawled into my sleeping bag and closed my eyes. I tried to concentrate on Gimli's snoring and Legolas's muffled curses. Apparently Gimli's snores intruded on elvish dreams. Sam, Merry and Pippin, who were not yet tired, lay next to me with their heads close together, giggling like children on a camping trip.

If I could have forgotten about Aragorn and Frodo looking for an uncanny creature called Gollum and Boromir looking not at me, but at something invisible next to me, I could _perhaps _have made myself believe in a camping trip, too, and gone to sleep. But as it were, I fell asleep only when the eastern sky was already pale with the coming dawn.

**ooo**

Aragorn decided during the night that we would return to traveling in the cover of darkness. 

To adjust our rhythm to sleeping during the day and traveling by night he told us that we would paddle for several hours today, then rest for several hours and so on all through the night and only stop the following day for a prolonged rest.

"Is it because of Gollum?" I asked Aragorn in a whisper as we went down to the boats. He gave me a surprised look, but after a moment's hesitation he nodded.

"He's been following us since Moria, and I can't catch him. I fear that he will alert orcs or other enemies to our passing."

I had not thought about that. I spent an uneasy day and an uncomfortable night always looking back across my shoulder when I was paddling, or staring into the shadows of the river behind us when I wasn't paddling, trying to see... something... pale eyes gleaming in the twilight...

But I never saw Gollum at all.

**ooo**

On the seventh day of our journey the country on either side of the river began to change. 

The soft sloping banks grew steeper and rocky; thickets of thorn bushes and brambles now grew in tangled clumps on the slanting banks of the river. Above the banks cliffs began to rise higher and higher as the night passed into morning. The rock faces of the cliffs were of crumbling, weathered grey stone overgrown with creepers and ivy. Now and again I could see areas of raw, almost white rock where recently a part of the cliff had broken away in an avalanche. Behind the cliffs dark ridges of a grey hill country loomed with shadowy forests of firs and pines. The Emyn Muil. I recalled the name of this country, but this time not from the maps I had seen in Rivendell, but from the books, and from the movies, too.

I recalled going to the cinema, the soft red chairs and the sweet smell of popcorn and almost laughed out loud, so strange and exotic the memory seemed to me now as I paddled in the twilight of another grey dawn, now and then joining Aragorn in his apprehensive looks at the many birds which seemed to fly up all around us in alarm as soon as our boats passed their nests.

We made camp in the shelter of a grey cliff face as soon as the sun was up. Aragorn chose the first watch and I could see that he was worried. Boromir kept away from the rest of the company as he had a habit of doing since we left Lórien. I did not dare to approach him anymore. The hobbits sat huddled close together as if they wanted to keep to themselves, too. So I was stuck with Gimli and Legolas. That pair had become fast friends during our sojourn in the woods of Lórien. As a result Gimli was not quite as gruff anymore, and Legolas was much more accessible, allowing to actually show some of his emotions on his face. Before they turned in that morning, they invited me to play a game of knucklebones with them. To my relief it was only called 'knucklebones' and did not actually involve any bones, knuckle or other, but only dice carved... well, probably they were carved of bone. But the dice did not _look_ like bones and I was content with that illusion. We played three times. I won. We played again. In the end, Gimli owed me a favour.

"She'll want all the jewels I ever carved from the earth," Gimli grumbled theatrically. That reminded me of something.

"No," I told the dwarf. "Actually, the jewel I have already, but I would like to have a setting for it, so that I could wear it around my neck." I felt myself smiling. I had only just remembered the jewel I had found in the dirt on the Last Bridge.

"Show me that jewel," Gimli said suspiciously. "It's probably rubbish. Some fake bauble made of glass."

I raised my eyebrows at him but retrieved the jewel from the depths of my backpack.

Now it was Gimli's turn to raise his bushy eyebrows. And Legolas made a small noise low in his throat in surprise.

"But this is an Elvish jewel!" he said.

"I know. Glorfindel left it as a token on the Last Bridge when we traveled from Bree to Rivendell. I found it and Aragorn told me to keep it. When I was told that Glorfindel had placed it there, I tried to give it back to him, but he would not take it." I stared at the jewel gleaming softly on my palm. Would I ever see the elf-lord again? I really hoped so. But even if I did not, I would remember him for all of my life.

"For that I would fashion you a setting even without owing you a debt," Gimli said. "This is a precious jewel. I have seldom seen one that is clearer or more precisely cut and shaped. When this business is over, I will make you a beautiful setting for it. This will be a treasure to pass down many generations as an heirloom of your house."

I carefully wrapped up the jewel again and put it into my backpack. Heirloom... I did not look at Boromir. I suppressed a sigh. When all this - business - as Gimli had called it, was over... I could not but wonder where I would end up when everything was over and done with. And then I did sigh.

We still had a long way to go until this business would be anything like over.

**ooo**

On the eighth day we almost drowned. 

Aragorn thought mistakenly that we were still miles away from the rapids preceding Sarn Gebir. If Sam had not shouted with fright as soon as he saw the currents rush foamingly against the sharp rocks of the rapids, we would have been lost. Even so, we had a hard time to turn the boats and get out of the current. Struggling against the power of the river we paid no attention to the shores and drifted closer and closer to the eastern banks.

Suddenly something dark whined past my head and hit Frodo in the boat before me in the back and bounced off harmlessly because of the elvish armour concealed beneath the hobbit's shirt. The hobbit lurched against Aragorn, who turned and exclaimed in anger.

"Orcs!" he cried, even as Legolas called out a warning in his own tongue:

"Yrch! Get down, Lothíriel!"

I threw myself across our luggage, making myself as flat as possible beneath the rim of the boat. The elf strung his bow and positioned an arrow in one swift, flowing movement. Another black arrow almost hit Merry. A third arrow got stuck in Aragorn's hood but did not hurt him. Legolas let go of his arrow. Seconds later one of the dark shapes running towards the water on the eastern bank collapsed with an agonized yell. Legolas hit his aim with deadly precision. The orcs drew back.

"Now get up again and paddle, Lothy," Legolas hissed, for the first time using the nickname the hobbits had invented. "I will try and bring down some more of these vile creatures."

I did as I was told, and laboriously Gimli and I paddled across the river, following the other two boats to the western shore.

Yells and screams in the darkness behind us told us that the elf hit at least three more orcs. Then we were out of reach, and the western shore of the Anduin loomed dark and silent above us. We were about to reach the shore when suddenly a dark shape passed above us, a shadow darker than the night, with wings so huge that they hid the stars in the sky.

Fierce voices on the other side of the river yelled a welcome, but Frodo turned white as a sheet and fell to the ground, clutching his side. I felt cold fear wash over me. All blood seemed to drain from my head in an instant, leaving me weak-kneed and trembling. With a shrill whistling sound I heard the release of an elvish arrow. Seconds later a great croaking scream echoed through the night and many voices were raised in horror and anger on the other side of the river.

Then silence fell.

It was then that I recalled Gollum crying out in the movie: "Ghosts, ghosts with wings!"

A winged nazgûl had come for us.

**ooo**

We waited for a few moments, but when the night remained silent, Aragorn led us upstream a bit further, keeping to the edge of the river. Finally we found a small shallow bay in the cover of a few gnarled trees with a steep rocky bank. We moored the boats and decided to stay in them for the rest of the night. Who knew how safe the western banks still were? 

"Praised be the bows of the Galadhrim," Gimli said to his friend munching noisily on a piece of lembas. "That was a great shot, Legolas. And in the dark, too."

"But what was it that I hit with it?" the elf asked, daintily unwrapping a piece of lembas.

"No idea," the dwarf answered. "But it was a shadow, and a shadow on my heart, too. It reminded me of - " He paused. "It reminded me of Moria," he hurried on. "The Balrog."

"It wasn't a Balrog," Frodo said, and his voice trembled slightly. "It was cold. Much colder. I think it was - " he trailed off, his hand instinctively massaging his shoulder.

"What do you think?" Boromir hissed from the other boat and I felt cold at the eagerness in his voice.

"Nothing." Frodo said, and for the first time I noticed a touch of cold in the hobbit's voice, a core of barely concealed steel. "But our enemies did not like that it fell."

"So it seems," Aragorn agreed. He had watched the exchange between Boromir and Frodo with dismay visible on his face even in the still dim light of the barely fading night. "But that does not mean that we are safe here tonight. We mustn't sleep tonight, and keep your weapons ready."

The rest of the night passed uneventful and silent. Dawn came with fog on the river and only a pale glimpse of light in the east.

The time had come to decide how we would go on, turning to Gondor or continuing on the Westside of the river and pass through the Emyn Muil into Mordor. Boromir wanted to enter Gondor and head for Minas Tirith as quickly as possible. But Aragorn desired to at least go to Amon Hen first, from whence he said it was possible to see very far and thus easier for him to judge the situation of the lands around us and the dangers ahead of us. Boromir remained obstinate until Frodo made it clear that he would follow Aragorn where ever the ranger would turn.

I felt sick to my stomach and did not say anything.

**ooo**

After the decision was made to stay with the river for another few miles, Aragorn and Legolas went ahead to find a trail on which we could walk carrying the boats. 

They soon came back with the news of having found a wide track leading past the rapids.

Gimli, the hobbits and I carried the baggage. Then Aragorn and Boromir followed with the large boat. But Legolas carried one of the smaller boats on his own.

Luckily it was not far to walk, and the trail was indeed in a fairly good condition. But even so, when Aragorn and Boromir finally appeared with the third boat, the afternoon was already almost over and the shadows were deepening again.

Although Aragorn was clearly unhappy with it, it was obvious that we had to rest for the night. All of us, including Gimli, were exhausted and Frodo looked grey in the face.

Aragorn and I took the first watch.

Tomorrow we would reach the Gates of Argonath.


	22. Amon Hen

**22. Amon Hen**

I could not sleep that night but dozed fitfully. Every now and then I started at some noise in the darkness and come fully awake again. When the sky in the east was paling, it began to rain, a light, soothing rain of spring. The cool drops of water hitting my cheeks dispelled the last vestiges of drowsiness. I huddled in our boat and watched how the golden light of dawn turned the drizzle into a silvery veil. Soft swirls of white mist drifted above the Anduin and the only noise was the rushing of the river.

It was a beautiful and peaceful dawn.

It seemed strange to me that a day on a journey as dark as ours could have such an innocent beginning. It felt almost as if someone up there in heaven – here that would be the Valar and the One – wanted to give us a sign. A sign that not all hope was lost yet. _Yet. _

Then the moment of peace was over, the sun rose and the fog dispersed.

**ooo**

We kept as closely as possible to the western banks in the shadows of ever rising cliffs. During the morning the sky darkened again with many low clouds and before noon it began to rain heavily. We had to draw skin-covers over the boats to prevent them from being flooded. The magical cloaks of Lórien turned out to be not too magical after all, because after a time the wetness of the rain soaked through the cloth with the grey fabric clinging wetly to our bodies. 

Luckily this heavy rain did not last long. It was not even afternoon when the clouds passed away again, driven by fierce winds following us from the Misty Mountains. The sun returned bright and warm, melting the last remnants of fog and mist away.

At about this time we entered a wide, rocky ravine where only a few gnarled trees managed to cling to the narrow clefts and crevices of the rock face. Soon the channel grew narrow and the currents of the Anduin swept as along swifter than ever. I prayed that Aragorn knew what he was doing. His misjudgment of the closeness of the rapids had scared me. I did not want to drown. Drowning was definitely not on the list of my favorite ways of dying.

The cliffs closed in on both sides now, casting deep shadows on the river. The only light was a thin stretch of pale blue sky far above our heads. Suddenly I grew aware of two huge pillars of grey stone in the distance. They seemed to guard the river, which flowed through a narrow gap between them. As we were being swept towards them, I noticed how strangely smooth and sheer the grey rock of those pinnacles was. Where the light hit the stone, it almost looked like enormous folds of cloth hanging down to the river from far above. I blinked. The cliffs looked like huge statues of grim faced men, stretching out their palms towards us, as if they wanted to warn us from getting any closer or to ward off evil from passing between them. Then I realized what they were –

"Behold the Argonath," Aragorn called out, taking the paddle out of the water for a moment to indicate the huge pillars of rock ahead. "The Pillars of Kings! We have to pass through the narrow channel of water between them. Keep the boats in line and as far apart as possible."

Easier said than done. The currents gripped our larger boat harder than the smaller ones and Legolas and I had to fight hard to keep the boat from being carried to the sides of the gorge and crashed on the outcrops of the rocks. I couldn't spare a moment to look at the Argonath.

When I thought that I couldn't lift my arms for another stroke with the paddle, we shot towards a gap of light and out into the sunshine. Here the river ran suddenly almost slowly, leisurely, more like a great lake than a river. I gasped for air and pushed sweaty strands of hair out of my eyes.

Only then did I turn around to have a look at the famous pillars of kings. But from behind them there was not all that much to see. The back of the cliffs had not been worked; only the helms and crowns could be seen from here, rising as strange, round mounds above the rugged stone of the cliffs.

**ooo**

The oval surface of water we now floated on was surrounded by steep grey hills and the suddenly soft currents towed us slowly, but inexorably towards three sharp peaks of rocky hills. These hills jutted out of the water at the southern end of the lake; the one in the middle was an island, but the other two were merely outcroppings from the mainland and still connected to the shores. I suddenly remembered the name: the Nen Hithoel.

For a few moments that horrible ravine had driven all coherent thought from my mind. Only slowly I felt myself relax and able to take in my surroundings again.

The Nen Hithoel…

But then those three peaks and the great, muted roar we could hear from afar had to be –

"And behold Tol Brandir," Aragorn called out to us, pointing to the three peaks. "To the left is Amon Lhaw, and to the right is Amon Hen, the Hills of Hearing and of Sight. In the days of the great kings there were high seats upon them. Watch was kept there. The island between them is Tol Brandir, and it is said that no man or beast has ever set foot there, because behind it lie the great falls of Rauros. I hope to reach Amon Hen before nightfall."

Suddenly my throat felt choked with apprehension.

We let our boats drift for half an hour, barely moving towards the southern end of the lake, eating and drinking and relaxing. The sun was already turning red with the coming of the evening. I looked at the dark waters of the lake which reflected the sun and the hills around us almost like a mirror. The Nen Hithoel had to be very deep, I thought, to stop the mighty currents of the Anduin like that, especially with those great waterfalls at its southern end. _Remember not to fall in… could be the last thing you do…_

We took up our paddles again and made for the western shore, hastening towards Amon Hen.

Silently we sped through the growing twilight. When we reached the shadow of the hill at last, night had fallen and many stars shone above us. Behind the Hill of Amon Hen the Nen Hithoel formed a small, half-circle cove with a sandy beach. We paddled right to the beach and towed the boats well out of the water, hiding them under nearby bushes and shrubs. Nearby a small, clear spring tumbled down from the hill towards the Nen Hithoel. This was where we made camp for the night.

Above the beach a grassy lawn ran up the sloping hill to the feet of Amon Hen. Behind it more hills rose in the shadows, grown with many dark trees, following the curving shores of the lake. Everything seemed calm and peaceful, but as I crawled into my sleeping bag, I saw that Aragorn was still awake and keeping watch with Frodo.

They talked in low voices and Aragon glanced around the dark slopes of the hill every now and then. He clearly felt uneasy and my heart promptly started pounding again, adrenaline rushing through my body, driving away the fatigue of the day. I watched breathlessly as Frodo drew his blade. But although it seemed to shimmer at its edges, it did not gleam with that clear blue light I remembered from Moria and Aragorn did not yell 'Orcs!' to wake us for battle.

It was a long time before my heartbeat slowed down again and longer still until I finally drifted off to sleep.

**ooo**

The next day dawned ominously. For some bizarre reason I recalled the line Tolkien had used in the books. The mind is a strange thing, keeping the most idiotic references hidden away in its nooks and crannies. Anyway, the line I refer to is: _ "The day came like fire and smoke." _

In the eastern sky great clouds of black smoke drifted up and I imagined I could smell burnt wood and grass. The sun rose red like fire and brought another quote to my mind, this time Orlando Bloom: _ "A red dawn…blood has been spilled tonight." _

My stomach lurched sickly. Goal for the day: keep the hell away from any orcs.  
**  
**

** ooo**

We ate breakfast in silence. Afterwards Aragorn called for a council. My heart raced, my stomach was in flutters. _Everything will turn out alright, everything will turn out alright…_

I repeated this thought – this mantra – over and over in my mind, barely listening to what speech Aragorn gave on the choice now placed before the fellowship.

I was relieved to see that Boromir seemed calmer and more like himself. Perhaps he had after all found enough strength in his heart to resist the ring. Gods, how I hoped he would remain strong, how I hoped he would not frighten Frodo off, making all of us chase after the hobbit and… Suddenly the sound of a light, shaky voice raised above the others brought me out of my fretting. The others fell silent at once.

"I know that haste is needed," Frodo was saying. "But I just cannot choose right away. This is such a burden! Give me an hour on my own, and I will tell you my decision. Just an hour for myself, to think things over!"

I wanted to interrupt the hobbit, asking him to stay, not to endanger himself, envisioning how angry Aragorn would be when he realized that I had known… But suddenly the voice of Galadriel returned to me: _ "Even for immortals it is difficult to discern which deeds and omissions lead to the one end or the other." _

This was Frodo's burden. He _needed_ to make up his mind on his own.

What if my interference would cause him not to find the resolve he needed to go on?

If an ill-placed warning prevented him from finding the courage he needed to go on?

I bit down on my lip and looked at the grass in front of me. An ant was carrying a crumb of lembas away that was three times her weight. What would lembas do to ants? Turn them into super-ants?

"Very well," Aragorn said softly. "You shall have an hour, and you shall be alone. But don't go far, or out of call; danger is near."

My heart beat like a drum, but I kept my silence as I raised my head and watched Frodo walk off into the wood. Sam's grey-green eyes followed him until he disappeared. When Sam turned back to us, he wore an exasperated and thoroughly annoyed expression on his face. He looked as if he wanted to ask us how stupid we could be. I sighed. Today the only possible answer to that was something like: "You ain't seen nothing yet, mate."

The others began to talk again, asking Aragorn about Gondor and the Argonath. I chewed the nail of my right thumb, thinking about what I should do, _if _ I should do anything.

Perhaps I _could_ try to keep Boromir from following Frodo.

I rose to my feet and walked over to where the man sat on his own. I was relieved to see that his eyes were clear and that he seemed to be calm and quite himself.

"Hey," I said softly. He looked up at me and smiled wearily.

"Hey yourself." Then Boromir sighed heavily. "Poor Frodo. I would not want to be in his shoes today. Do you care for a walk?"

When I did not answer at once, his eyes filled with hurt. What the hell, I thought. A walk could not hurt, and I would make sure that we went into the opposite direction of Frodo.

"Alright," I said. "But not far. You heard Aragorn. Danger is close at hand."

The warrior raised his eyebrows at being cautioned by a girl. He rose swiftly to his feet and offered me his arm. I placed my shaking hand on his arm. Would that be the last time I touched him alive?

"We won't go far, Aragorn," Boromir said. "But Frodo is not the only one in need of some peace and quiet." The ranger only nodded, but he gave me a fierce look of warning. I swallowed hard and nodded imperceptibly. I did know that it was dangerous to be alone with Boromir – even without any orcs nearby.

We walked along the shore of the Nen Hithoel away from Amon Hen. We had not gone very far, when I noticed that Boromir was growing tense and fidgety again.

"What's the matter?" I asked, apprehensively.

"Don't look at me like that," Boromir growled. "As if I was carrying a disease or something. You don't understand, none of you!" His voice rose shrilly. "You don't know how it stands with Gondor! My people are barely holding out against the enemy! We_ need_  
help! We need a _weapon_ against the enemy! We've lost so much, Lothíriel! So many innocent people have already been killed, and more are killed every day that we spend on this damned goose-chase! Men, women and children! Murdered, tortured, mutilated! If you had ever seen what those orcs do to the inhabitants of the villages they raid, you would not act so cold!"

His voice broke into a sob.

I touched his arm in a gesture of sympathy and understanding.

"I am so sorry, Boromir. I can't tell you how sorry I am! But this thing is dangerous! It cannot help you! Don't you see how it plays with your mind?"

He rounded on me with fury blazing in his eyes. Frightened I backed away one step, and then another, my footing unsure with fear.

"What do you know about that? You are no wizard! You are no Elf! You are only a_ girl_!"

"Boromir, please, keep calm!" I pleaded, raising my hands entreatingly. "Don't you see? That's exactly what I'm talking about! It's this evil thing! It's turning you around, it's changing you! Please, keep calm!"

"Keep calm?" He took a menacing step towards me. "Keep calm? When my people are killed and murdered by demons every day we waste with this idiotic quest? Changing? Turning ME around? It's _you_  
who are twisted, not I! I only want to save my people! And you are _not_ going to keep me from trying!"

With that he gave me a great shove. I stumbled backwards, losing my balance, stepping back once more to regain my balance, but then I stumbled again as my heel got caught on a root and this time I fell and I kept falling and falling until I landed with a great splash in the cold water of the Nen Hithoel. For a moment of complete panic I felt my clothes pulling me down towards the unfathomable depths of the quiet waters. I submerged, my arms and legs flailing madly. Then my feet found firm ground. I was lucky. Much as in the cove where we had made camp there was a small strip of sand at the edge of the water where I had fallen in.

Sputtering, coughing and gasping I emerged from the water. I sat down on the ground and shivered and shuddered, only slowly getting a grip on myself.

As the shock subsided I started feeling mad as hell. I blinked hard and rubbed at my eyes. Where was that son of a bitch? Ring or no ring, he was going to catch hell for this!

But when I finally looked around, Boromir was gone.

I froze with shock as I realized exactly what that meant.

I got up and scrambled laboriously back up on the bank.

"Boromir?" I called out. "Boromir?"

There was no answer.

Bloody fucking hell!

I turned and ran back to the camp.

When I reached the camp, the others were still deep in talk. When they got a look at me, they jumped up, drawing their swords.

"What happened?" Aragorn asked. "Where is Boromir?"

"I have no idea," I gasped. "We had an argument, I fell into the lake. When I got back out, he was gone. Where is Frodo?"

"Where is Frodo?" Sam repeated. "What if something's happened to him?"

"We have to go and look for him," Aragorn said. "Lothy, you stay here, change and ready the boats for carrying them down the hill. The others –"

At this moment Boromir came running down the slope of Amon Hen. He was crying and white as a sheet. He looked as if his heart was broken. When he looked at me, all wet and shivering, the others standing around me in a protective circle with their swords unsheathed, unspeakable despair rose in his eyes.

"Where have you been, Boromir?" Aragorn shouted. "What have you done?"

Boromir slumped down, barely able to speak. His voice was choked, when he answered.

"I have been looking for Frodo. I found him way up the hill. I was so angry, I was beside myself, I don't even remember what I said to him, and suddenly he vanished. He must have used the ring, because he was frightened of me," he moaned, tears running down his cheeks.

"Is that all that happened?" Aragorn asked, his voice cold as ice.

"Yes, yes, I swear it. I swear it!" Boromir cried, his voice full of anguish. Aragorn turned to look at me, his eyes questioning me. I nodded. It was not quite what had happened as far as I knew. But it was more or less what had happened.

"This is bad!" Sam shouted. "Why should Mr. Frodo put this evil thing on? He didn't ought to have! There's only one reason why he would think he had to! What have you done, Mr. Boromir? What have you done?"

Boromir put his face in his hands and wept like a child.

"He would not keep it on," Merry interrupted. "He would take it off as soon as he had escaped, the way Bilbo used to get past unwelcome visitors!"

"But where did he go?" Pippin cried out anxiously. "He's already been gone for ages!"

"When did you leave Frodo?" Aragorn asked Boromir. "Tell me at once!"

Boromir lifted his head, his eyes dull and broken. "Twenty minutes ago, maybe half an hour. Maybe more. I cannot remember. Everything's hazy."

"You cannot remember?!" Sam sputtered, rage rising in his eyes.

"Not much more than half an hour," I put in. "I came back to the camp at once, and Boromir had to get from back there up the hill first. An hour at the most."

"But that's a long time," Pippin shouted. "Anything can have happened to him by now!"

"We have to go and look for him!" Legolas called out, picking up his bow.

"Yes, at once!" Sam called out. Merry and Pippin were already running for the woods.

"Wait," Aragorn called out. "Wait! We should go in pairs! It's too dangerous to go haring off like that!"

But the hobbits never heard him. Soon their bright voices drifted back to us from way up the hill, calling, "Frodo, Frodo."

"Oh, no," the ranger groaned. "Now we have to find them, too! Boromir, Lothíriel, you go after Merry and Pippin. Legolas, Gimli, you go and look for Frodo! I will catch up with Sam and take him looking for Frodo, too."

With that he disappeared into the woods. Moments later I heard his voice call out to Sam: "Come with me, Sam! We have to find your master!"

Legolas sprang forth nimbly, Gimli hard on his heels, running with great speed for a dwarf.

I ran over to Boromir, dropping my wet tunic to the ground. The man sat on the ground, looking totally dazed. I shook him at the shoulder, hard.

"Boromir! Boromir! Snap out of this! We've got to find Merry and Pippin! There are orcs about!"

"Orcs?" Boromir looked up and moaned, "Oh no!"

But this additional shock at least roused him from his daze. He was on his feet at once, horror growing in his eyes. I grabbed my sword, Tínu, and fastened the scabbard to my belt.

Boromir turned slowly towards me. For the first time in days the man I had made love with was really back in his eyes, the kind and gentle warrior I had come to like so much, and almost love, in Lórien and before. But his fierce spirit was broken, his self-esteem withered. The man he had been was destroyed by the ring. I felt tears of my own rise up in my eyes.

Boromir looked at my wet and shivering appearance for a moment, then he said, his voice shaking, "I am so sorry, Lothíriel. You have been right all along. I should have listened to you."

I reached out and clasped his hand tightly. His hand was cold and trembled.

"It's alright. What is important is that you did not take the ring and that you came back right away and warned us. But we have to run now, we have to find Merry and Pippin before the orcs find them!"

Boromir nodded. "Follow me and when we meet the enemy, take the hilt with both hands! You will need every ounce of strength you have!"

With that he sped off into the woods. I ran behind him, trying desperately to keep up the pace of his longer strides. Behind us I heard a soft splashing sound, as if one of the small boats hit the water. I did not look back. But I knew in my heart that Frodo had made his decision and was setting out for the last stage of his quest. I hoped that Sam would be in time to accompany him, but there was no way I could turn back and make sure of it. Somewhere in the woods before us Merry and Pippin were running along: running straight into the arms of the orcs.

And Boromir and I followed them as fast as we could.


	23. Orcs

**Rating: **This chapter contains strong but non-explicit adult themes, references to violence, and strong coarse language according to the rating M recommended by FFNet. This chapter is therefore not suitable reading material for children or teens below the age of 16.**  
**

******oooOooo**  


**A/N: **  
cod-piece: a bagged appendage worn at the front of breeches or a piece of armour to cover a vulnerable spot of the male anatomy; yes, **that** spot; important safety tip for orcs…

* * *

**oooOooo**

**23. Orcs**

We were not far into the woods, when ahead of us the bright voices of the hobbits suddenly rose shrilly in cries of fear, only to be drowned out by harsh, evil voices I could not understand.

The orcs had come.

The first thing I noticed about the orcs was that compared to the real thing, the Uruk-Hai of the movies had been positively cute. These vile… things… were not even remotely human, and never had been.

We slowed down for a second. Boromir turned to me, his eyes full of guilt and horror.  
I unsheathed Tínu. The blade glittered silvery in the spring sunshine. My blood ran hot and cold as adrenaline rushed through my body, sweeping away my fear.

"Let's go kill some orcs!" I said and smiled at Boromir.

At that Boromir gave a blood-curdling warrior's cry and ran forward, his long sword lifted in his right, his horn bouncing on his back, his dark hair streaming in the air like a silken banner.  
Shock and the hormones of war, which flow as true in a woman's body as in a man's, made me see the scene as if in slow motion, with an unreal clarity of vision. I raised my voice in a war cry of my own, my voice cracking shrilly. I must have sounded like a banshee, screaming like mad at the top of my lungs.

When I stormed out of the woods hard on the heels of Boromir, two huge black orcs turned towards me slowly with an unbelieving look on their faces. Boromir, already splattered with black, stinking blood, stood above two orcs thrashing in the throes of their death. This short moment of distraction was enough for the two hobbits held at the scruffs of their necks by the two orcs. Merry and Pippin stuck their small swords into the dark, hairy bodies of the orcs, wiggled free and ran towards us.

Unfortunately the distraction did not last long. As I looked into the woods at the other side of the clearing, I saw that many more orcs were running up the hill towards us and not all of them were the small, ratty orcs of Moria, squinting in the sunlight with teary eyes. No, most of them were taller than Boromir and much heavier in build; with great claws and long, yellow teeth like wild boars made into goblins of war. Those tall orcs did not rush towards us blindly, driven by hate for everything that walks under then sun. They held formation and obeyed orders. And they wore armor.

We stepped in front of the hobbits.

"Run away," I screamed at the hobbits. But Merry and Pippin did not listen. They took their small swords into both hands and secured their stance, much as I had done.

Then the orcs were upon us.

They came at us from all sides.  
Boromir kept swatting them aside with great strokes by his sword, cutting throats and penetrating the weak spots of their armor with inhuman precision. His speed was immense, the power of his lunges unbelievable. But there were so many of them, they spilled out of the forest like a flood of black death. In a corner of my mind that was strangely calm and detached from the horror of battle, I knew that there were too many.

A huge black thing towering two heads above me lunged at me with a great scimitar.  
I could barely counter the strike and the force of the clashing weapons reverberated through my whole body, almost bringing me down to my knees. It was bigger, it was faster and it knew how to fight. And it wore armor. Fuck.

However, it did not wear an armored cod-piece. And this particular spot was conveniently within my reach. I did not think about elegant moves, or what you can or cannot do with a sword. I did not think at all. I pointed the tip of my sword to the front and ran straight at the orc, putting the whole weight of my body into my thrust.  
For a sickening moment I felt the resistance of the heavy leather trousers the orc was wearing. Then the leather gave and I stumbled forwards.

A deafening yell issued from the orc.

Desperate to get my blade free, I yanked upwards and downwards. Each movement was greeted with an even more horrible yell. Then my blade was free, covered in steaming black blood. Hot black blood spurted from the wound. The orc was screaming and screaming and screaming. Then his voice suddenly broke and he fell over, unmoving.

For a moment an eerie silence had fallen in the clearing.

Another orc, standing right in front of me stumbled back, his mouth gaping. I brought Tínu up and about in the long swift arc Glorfindel had drilled me to use against larger opponents.  
The elvish sword was sharper than most human swords, sharper than most razors or scalpels. It neatly cut the orc's throat. A spray of hot, foul smelling blood hit me in the face.  
I gagged and felt bile rise to my mouth.

A scream of rage tore from many black throats and they ran at us with renewed determination.

I cut the feet out from under an orc that almost brought me to fall. But there were three others just behind him. Somehow I kept them at bay. But only just. The battle drew on. I was beginning to tire. I stumbled and something sliced across my right jaw, collar bone and across my left breast. I never felt the wound. I regained my balance and threw myself at the orc with a desperate lunge.

In this instance Boromir sounded his horn.

The orc hesitated. For a moment he did not look at me. The moment of his death.  
Then I turned myself and looked at Boromir, who was blowing his horn.  
Bright and clear it sounded through the wood, bright and clear was the wood with the sunshine of the first warm day of spring.

Something hissed through the air and Boromir stumbled.

His horn fell to the ground.

Two black arrows stuck out from his right side.

Boromir lifted his head.

"Lothy, behind you!" he screamed. I turned not a moment too soon and countered a strike which had been aimed at my head. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Boromir slowly raise his sword again and run up against the orcs, which still kept coming towards us out of the woods.  
Then I heard again the call of Boromir's horn, but this time it was not as strong as it had been moments ago.

I could not turn back to look at him though, because I was caught between two orcs, one of them small and bow-legged, the other tall and dark with a tangled mane of black hair, a toad and a boar, both powerful and deadly, and my arms felt like lead.

Merry and Pippin suddenly jumped at the toad, leaving me to face the taller one.

This orc smiled at me and as he lifted his scimitar he licked his lips ever so slowly.  
Suddenly I was afraid. Suddenly I was frightened out of my wits. I felt my sword tremble in my hands, I wanted to throw it away, I wanted nothing but to turn around and run.

But that was impossible.  
The orc kept coming towards me.

There, the weak spot of their armor, where it was tied over the breastbone. The only spot within reach. He was too close to try for lower things or the throat.  
I hacked at the strings of his armor with all the strength I had left.

But it was not enough.

Tínu slipped and he smote down his scimitar against the slender elvish blade with his immense brute power. It felt as if Tínu was breaking along with my arm.

I screamed with pain and stumbled backwards. Black hairy arms caught me around my right wrist and lifted me up. The pain was blinding. But somehow I managed to get at my dagger and I slashed wildly with my left hand.

I was thrown through the air and hit the ground hard. My vision faded into spinning wheels of grey and white. At the edge of the clearing I saw Boromir slowly sinking down to the ground. His body was pierced by many black arrows. He looked like a pin cushion, his face white as snow.

I wanted to get up and run to him, but my body would not move. Then I saw a black fist coming at me out of nowhere.

**ooo**

When I opened my eyes to escape evil nightmares of pain and darkness, I found myself lying on the ground, my hands and feet bound with viciously tight ropes. Blood had dried in an itching crust on my face, throat and breast.  
I had been unconscious, I thought. But for how long?  
I lay on my back. The sky above me was growing dark with the early dusk of spring.  
At least I was alive. 

Suddenly the turmoil of harsh, croaking voices separated into three main speakers, who were now and again interrupted by others. To my horror I could understand what they were saying. They spoke heavily accented Westron, making the language sound vile and uncouth. And they were talking about me.

"Our orders are:_ kill the warriors, but not the Halflings; they are to be brought back ALIVE as quickly as possible_," one voice said in a deep growl.  
"But this one's no Halfling. And my men are hungry!" a second voice hissed.  
"But it's not a warrior either. It's smaller. We will take it back with the Halflings. The White Hand will decide what to do with it," the first voice said.  
"It had a sword!" a third voice croaked, dripping with hate. "It stuck its sword into Kurk-rûk." At that a gale of raucous laughter flared up around me. The one without a cod piece, I thought.  
"I know it had a sword. But it is much smaller than the warrior we killed. It only killed three, and two of them were stupid maggots from the east. I say we will take it to Saruman and let him decide what to do with it. I am Uglûk. I have spoken," the first voice roared with a note of finality in its voice.  
"But it's not a Halfling. We should be allowed to have fun with it at least," the second voice whined.  
"We have no time for fun," Uglûk shouted. There was a muffled thump and a groan, then silence.

Yes, I thought desperately. _ Please. _ No time for fun. Please.

I felt sick with fear and pain.

Then my consciousness must have waned, because when I grew aware of myself again, I was shivering all over and the sky above me was much darker than I remembered. My clothes were still wet from my involuntary dip in the lake. Either I would die from pneumonia or from the wound across my jaw, collarbone and breast. Or worse things that were yet to come. What would hurt less and be faster, I wondered, my thoughts growing hazy with pain, fear and exhaustion.

Some time later many shouts and yells woke me from uneasy slumber. A fight had broken out, but I could not understand what it was about. The next thing I could understand was the voice of the orc-chieftain, Uglûk.  
"Pick up the prisoners," Uglûk ordered. "We've got to get going. The horse breeders are watching their lands closely. And no tricks! We will take those prisoners to the White Hand. HE will decide what is to happen to them."

A huge black creature bent down over me. Clawed fingers dragged slowly across my breasts. I moaned with the unexpected additional pain. Then the creature was thrust aside and a yellow eyed ogre with a tangled black mane picked me up. He threw me across his shoulder and held my by the feet. I felt the blood begin to drip from my wounds at the jaw and the collarbone again.

They started to run.

My head swung up and down with the movements of the running orc. Within minutes I thought my head would explode with pain. My stomach revolted and I vomited all that I had eaten that day. The orc who was carrying me never stopped running.

**ooo**

I regained consciousness when I was thrown to the ground. I came to lie on my side. It was night and at the western horizon I could see a waning moon already setting for the night.  
A few feet away I thought I could discern the prone figures of two hobbits, bound at their hands and their feet just as I was, lying motionless on the ground. There was no feeling left in my hands and my feet at all. It felt as if I did not have hands and feet. Spasms of shivering came and went, making me feel hot and cold in turns. 

_ Keep the hell away from the orcs. _

It had been a good plan. But it had not really worked. Then I remembered Boromir, the last glimpse of him that I could recall… the still white face and the many black arrows protruding from his unmoving body.

I closed my eyes.

A painful jerk at my hair brought me awake again.  
"Now you walk," a filthy hot voice hissed close to my ear. "No crying out, no trying to escape. No tricks at all, or you won't live to regret it!"  
A bottle was thrust into my mouth and upended. I gagged and sputtered, but suddenly I was awake. A clawed hand gripped my neck from behind and pulled me to my feet. I screamed out in agony and fell back to the ground, only to be grabbed and pulled to my feet again. A whip struck my face in a stroke of sizzling agony.  
"No sound!" the voice rasped out at me. I stumbled forwards awkwardly, biting down on my lips as circulation returned to my feet in red-hot pain.

The hobbits were on their feet, too. Merry sported a bloody gash across his forehead, but Pippin seemed unhurt. Both were very pale, their eyes large and frightened in their small faces. I tried to smile at them. They would get away, I thought. But would I get away, too?

The orcs did not leave me any time to pursue any hopeful thoughts. We were separated and then we were herded on with well aimed lashes of the heavy orc whips.  
From somewhere behind me I heard Uglûk's voice: "Run, curse you, run! Run while the night lasts or the Whiteskins will get you!"

The orcs began to run.  
I began to run, or at least stumble along as fast as I could, too.

My legs felt heavy like lead and every step was painful. The wound on my jaw had opened once again. I could feel a sticky trail of new blood running down my cheek. Disconcerting sniffling noises rose up from the orcs running along at my sides. I discovered that I could run faster even though I was utterly exhausted. The orcs cheered me on, laughing and shouting.

I never noticed when I finally broke down.

I was slightly surprised that I was still alive when I opened my eyes again.  
I lay on the ground. My feet were bound again.  
The sky was growing lighter again with the dawn of a new day.  
The orcs were arguing amongst themselves, but I was too exhausted to understand them. Their evil accent changed the sound of the by now familiar Westron completely.  
It was something about horse people and nazgûl.  
I had the feeling that I ought to remember something about horse people and nazgûl, but my mind remained hazy. I was shivering again, but felt hot at the same time. My breath came in painful coughs. Fever, probably. And at least a bronchitis. Even if my hands and feet were untied, I could not have moved. Of Merry and Pippin I could see nothing.

I closed my eyes again.

When I felt myself being picked up again and thrown across another stinking black shoulder, I regained consciousness, but only for a few moments. Then darkness descended on my mind again.

I woke again. I was still alive. Unfortunately.  
It was night. Again. There seemed to be fewer voices around me and they were subdued, as if they were frightened. _ Orcs? Frightened? _

Simply lying unmoving on the ground made me feel better. Now and again a violent bout of shivering passed over my body. I suppressed a painful racking cough. I could feel neither my hands nor my feet. But I was still alive. I tried to look for the hobbits, but this was a dark night. I could not see a thing.  
"Merry? Pippin?" I whispered into the darkness. Even that hoarse whisper hurt my throat almost unbearably.

But there was no answer, no sound at all.

I was alone.  
Alone in the darkness.

"They wait for the sun, curse them," suddenly a dark voice growled not too far away from me, rising above the mutterings of the other orcs.  
"Come dawn they will have us!" croaked another voice, which seemed to move towards me. "Come dawn the horse people will attack, and they will have our skins!"  
"And nothing to eat till then! And no fun at all till then!" a malicious voice hissed from somewhere close to me.  
"Yes," rasped a higher voice in agreement, and the owner of this voice seemed to come closer to the spot where I was lying, too. "We should at least have some fun with the human while we still can."  
A turmoil of vile voices shouting agreements and curses broke loose.  
"Idiots!" Uglûk shouted at them. "But if it makes you feel better and fight better come morning…" He let his voice trail off in evil laughter.  
"But don't touch the Halflings!" he commanded.

Suddenly dark forms moved about me, drawing closer and closer. I could not see their faces, but I could smell them even with my congested sinuses. They stank of old blood and rotten flesh. They moved towards me, muttering excitedly. I could feel them close in on me.  
Hot stinking breath touched my skin.

This can't be true, I thought, trying desperately to move. But I could only wriggle like a dying fish, which made them laugh, peals of harsh, vicious laughter that echoed through the night.

The rope around my wrists and ankles only cut deeper into my flesh with each frantic movement.

This can't be true, I thought. It's not in the story. This can't be happening. It's not in the story. _ I'm not in the story! _

I discovered that I still could scream.

**ooo**

A voice drifted into dreams of pain and darkness.  
A soft voice. Dark and slightly rough at the edges, but soft.  
"She is still alive. I cannot believe it! Aelfriv, Frohwein, I need you here at once!" 

Pain, pain, pain. I tried to move, to escape the pain, but I could not. I could not even scream, only a pitiful whimper emerged from my lips.

"You are safe now, you are safe! I've got you, don't worry, everything will be alright!"  
I opened my eyes. A human face. Dark eyes, dark blond hair curling around a human face.  
I started crying.

"You are safe," the man who held me repeated. "I promise! And Éomer, Éomund's son keeps his promises."

The world went dark around me.


	24. Healing Hands

**24. Healing Hands**

_I was on ship. The waves were high. My boat was rocking horribly. I was thrown from one side to the other. Every time I connected with the sides of the boat I yelped with pain._

Suddenly the rocking motion stopped.  
Immediately I felt better, sinking back into a deep, dreamless sleep.  
After what seemed to me a very long time, the sound of familiar voices woke me.

"And our friends?" that was Aragorn. How did he come to be on my ship? How did I come to be on a ship at all? My eyes flew open. I lay on my back on the ground; there was blue sky above me. A cool damp cloth was placed on my forehead. I was on no ship. Then I heard the movements of some big creatures close by. _Orcs_, I thought. _They have come back to get me and kill me. _

I started screaming.

"Lothíriel, Lothíriel, stop, stop, stop! Everything is alright. The orcs are dead, the Rohirrim have killed them, and they won't hurt you ever again!" That was Aragorn's voice, soothing, but commanding.

I fell silent, gasping for air. Every breath seemed to sear my lungs. Groggily I opened my eyes again. It was Aragorn. He was looking down at me, his expression worried. I wildly reached out for him, and he took my hand, holding it tightly in his own hands. My vision was still hazy, but the touch of Aragorn's hands penetrated the fever and chased away the nightmare. Suddenly I felt almost myself again. I was hurting all over. I was too weak to sit up. But I was myself.

"I am alive?" I asked slowly. My voice was a croaking rasp.  
"Yes, you are alive." Aragorn smiled at me. "You are badly wounded, but you will live. Everything will be fine."  
"Oh," I said, slightly surprised. "Really?"  
I blinked at Aragorn. "I thought that I would die. After all, I am not in the story. I knew about the hobbits. But I thought…"  
"The hobbits?" Aragorn interrupted his face suddenly strained and white. "Do you know anything about the hobbits?"

For a moment I tried to gather my thoughts. I should not tell what I knew. I remembered that. But no, that was not what Glorfindel had said. He had told me to be careful, and only to tell anything when it was necessary. Necessary… there was something I should remember about Aragorn and the hobbits.

"Hobbits?" A new voice asked from somewhere close by. I had heard that voice before. It was a beautiful voice. A dark, male voice, soothing like dark mead, but rough like a storm wind rushing through the grass.  
"Yes," Aragorn answered. "The orcs took them along with Lothíriel. They would be small, only children to your eyes with grey cloaks and no shoes."  
"No shoes?" The man sounded dubious. "There was no one else but her, no children or dwarves or gnomes. And we were only just in time to save her. Why ever did you take a woman with you on such a dangerous journey?"

The hobbits… the orcs… The orcs had taken me along with the hobbits. I had been rescued. The Rohirrim!

"Rohirrim!" I blurted out. "Are you Rohirrim?"  
Aragorn and the man he had been talking to turned back to me. The man knelt down on my other side and bent over me.  
I remembered his dark eyes and the soft waves of his dark blond hair. "Éomer?"  
"You remember me?" The man sounded pleased.  
"Yes, I think I do. You held me." I swallowed, my throat was painfully dry.

I remembered gentle hands and a soothing voice, a deep, dark voice that chased away my nightmare, a gleaming sword that chased away the dark creatures that had been in that dream.

Then I turned my head to look at Aragon. Aragorn. _There was something he should do… somewhere…_ It was an almost painful effort to think. But suddenly my memory of what had happened and what was supposed to happen returned to me. Aragorn needed to go to Fangorn. He had to be there so he could meet Gandalf.  
"The hobbits," I croaked. "I think they escaped. I think they managed to get away before the melee started. I think they made for the woods. You have to go and look for them."  
Hope lit Aragorn's tired face. "You think? Please, Lothy, tell me what you know!"  
"Go to the forest," I told him. "You have to go to the forest. You have to hurry!"

My head started throbbing again and every bone in my body ached. I closed my eyes and drifted off into a doze. The voices of Aragorn and Éomer came to me only from far away and there seemed to lie great stretches of silence between what they said. The fever had risen again and time had little meaning in my dazed state.

"Éomer, I have to go to the forest of Fangorn. I think the hobbits we are looking for managed to escape before you destroyed the orcs. We need to get to the forest as quickly as possible."

"I may be able to help you to get there swiftly, Aragorn Arathorn's son. But you have not told much about your errand. Will you tell me more so that I may judge what to do?"

"Of course. But I have to be brief in telling, for time is running short. We set out from Imladris…"

**ooo**

What seemed to be a long time later, but in reality was probably only an hour, I heard the sound of voices again. Every fit of coughing jarred my wounds and bruises and the resulting pain – although it did not wake me completely – brought me so close to consciousness that the sound of voices turned from a soothing background noise into words and meaning again. 

"Would you take Lothíriel with you to Edoras? She is much too ill to take her with us."

"Of course we will. But she is seriously injured and I think she must have the lung fever as well. I am afraid her chances to survive until we reach Edoras are slim."

_See, Aragorn, I told you so. I am not in the story. That means I will die somewhere along the way. And Galadriel said I **would** die in Middle-earth. _

But I was too weak and too dizzy with fever to say anything out loud of what I thought.

"I will try and strengthen her for the time being," Aragorn said. "And I still have some tea made of athelas. Though I have sadly no salve left to help with her other injuries. But at least it will keep down the fever, subdue the cough and relieve her pain. There should be enough of the tea left to get her safely to Edoras. She seems to calm down when you are there, Éomer. If it is not too much to ask, I would ask you to take care of her. She has been a valuable companion on our quest for many reasons. It is difficult to leave her behind, but we have to find the hobbits and if they have really entered Fangorn, they may be already in danger again."

"I will do as you ask, Aragorn Arathorn's son. But don't forget your promise to come back to us and aid us in our battle against the foe in the east," Éomer said in a firm voice.

_He has such a beautiful voice_, I mused. _I wonder if he can sing. _

I felt cool hands stroking my head, fingertips softly massaging my temples. A soft, soothing song drifted in the air around me. _ Aragorn's voice_, I thought. _Aragorn's hands. _

I felt as if the pain and the fever retreated with each verse of his song, but I did not understand the language he used.

Suddenly I found that I could open my eyes. I did so and looked into Aragorn's face. Working his healing magic had strangely calmed and relaxed the ranger's face. He looked younger. His eyes were clear and silvery bright and there seemed to be a star shining from his brow.

From somewhere words came to me and my voice, though it was still weak, was not as hoarse as it had been.  
_ "The hands of the king are the hands of a healer, and so shall the rightful king be known," _ I whispered to Aragorn.

For a moment Aragorn's fingers stopped in their soothing motion. Then he took a deep breath and continued.

"Sleep now, Lothíriel," Aragorn said in a low voice after another few minutes of stroking away my pain. "Sleep deeply and peacefully until you wake in Edoras."  
My eyelids already drooping, I barely managed to mumble: "Good luck!"

I was asleep before Aragorn could say anything else.

**ooo**

When I woke again, I lay in a bed. A real bed. A large bed, too; it was at least four feet wide. I was covered with several thick, warm blankets covered in white sheets and my head was supported by a thick pillow filled with downs. I felt weak and stiff, but I was not in any real pain. My mind was clear. I could even remember Aragorn's last words, _ "Sleep deeply and peacefully until you wake in Edoras." _

I looked around me.

I was in a small but very clean chamber. The walls were made of white, slightly uneven plaster. The ceiling above me was made of dark wood and was supported by huge beams, which must have been truly ancient trees when they were cut down. The floor was made of wood, too. Huge planks were set so expertly that there were no gaps between the individual planks at all. The floor had been waxed to a smooth glowing shine. In the wall on the left side of my bed was a small window made of round panes of yellow stained glass set in lead frames.

To the right of my bed was a small nightstand with a brass candlestick, a small jug and a cup made of pewter and a leather-bound book with a bookmark inserted in its centre. A chair was next to my bed. It was a simple wooden chair, but it had armrests, and a comfortable cushion was placed on its seat. It looked as if someone had been sitting with me not long ago.

A large chest made of wood set at the right wall of the chamber. It was carved with faintly Celtic designs touched with soft colours, red, green and gold. The door, set in the corner behind the wardrobe seemed to be carved with similar designs.

_ "Until you wake in Edoras…"_

If I was not very much mistaken, that was where I was now.  
Edoras.  
I was alive and in Edoras.  
My heart started pounding heavily as my memories returned to me.  
I was alive.  
_Thank you, dear God! _  
For a moment I lay completely still and simply enjoyed each breath. Then, involuntarily I began to recite the Lord's Prayer. Back on earth I had never been an especially religious person. Here in Middle-earth I had learned how to pray.

_Thank you, dear God that I am still alive!_

_**I** am still alive_, I thought. _But what about Boromir? Is there a paradise somewhere in Eru's heaven, where he is right now? At peace? _

With my mind clear and awake, the memory of the last time I had seen Boromir returned to me as well.

I remembered the last thing I had said to Boromir. _ "Let's go kill some orcs…"_  
I wished I could have told him _ "I love you". _

I had not loved him, but I had felt so much for him.  
I had never even tried to tell him what I _had_ felt for him.  
And now I never could.  
I felt tears running down my cheeks.

**ooo**

"Lothíriel?" A soft, cool voice with a slight accent, an emphasis on the 'r' in my name, made me start. I raised my head and dashed awkwardly at my eyes.  
"What is the matter? Are you in pain? I was so relieved that the fever is gone that I almost forgot about your other injuries."

A tall and very slender woman of about my own age hurried from the door to my bed and looked down at me with a worried expression on her face. She had a high forehead, prominent cheekbones, a thin nose that gave her a slightly haughty look and very piercing dark grey eyes. Her silvery blond hair was drawn back from her face and braided tightly at her neck.

"Éowyn?" I asked without thinking.  
She drew back, startled. "How do you know my name? This is the first time you are awake!"

I blinked the tears from my eyes. My voice was still thick with crying and it was hoarse from not speaking for such a long time when I answered, "I don't know. It must have penetrated my dreams at one point. But you are Éowyn, aren't you? Éomer's sister?"  
"Yes, indeed I am," she said, sitting down on the chair at my bedside. A shadow passed in her eyes. Something was amiss. Should I know about it? Somehow it was difficult to remember all the things I ought to know.

"But please, tell me, Lothíriel, why you have been crying! If you are in pain, there are soothing draughts which may alleviate your suffering," she added, her voice clear and high.

_Another beautiful voice_, I thought, suddenly remembering her brother's liquid dark voice.  
"No," I said slowly. "I am not in pain. At least not in any physical pain."  
She looked at me intently. Then she said hesitantly and perhaps a little bit curious, "But there surely is a reason for your tears, isn't there? Perhaps it will help you if you talk about it."

I sighed. _Perhaps it would. Perhaps it wouldn't. _

"Now that my mind is clear again, I remember what happened before the orcs took me and dragged me away." I paused, considering what I should tell her of our quest. Perhaps she already knew of it. "Has the leader of our company, Aragorn Arathorn's son, already returned to Edoras? And what day is it, anyway?"

"No, this Aragorn, Éomer spoke of, has not come to Edoras yet. And today is the first of March by common reckoning."  
I rubbed my forehead with a shaking hand. The breaking of the fellowship had been on the twenty-sixth of February. Less than a week ago. Aragorn's healing powers were truly impressive.

Finally I decided to be completely honest with Éowyn. If she was anything at all like the woman Tolkien had described, she would probably appreciate straightforwardness on my part.  
"I don't know what I may tell you. Our quest was secret and dangerous. We had made camp at Amon Hen when Orcs came upon us. There were four Hobbits with us, Halflings, people of the little folk. We were parted. Aragorn, Legolas - he's an Elf out of Mirkwood -, and Gimli – he's a dwarf of Dale -, were trying to find two of the Hobbits who had walked off on their own. Boromir of Gondor –"  
"The steward's son?" Éowyn interrupted, wide-eyed with astonishment.  
I nodded. "Yes. Boromir and I went after the other two Hobbits who had run off searching for their friends. They had been captured by Orcs. We fought against the Orcs because we hoped to free the Hobbits. But there were too many Orcs, and they were not simply Orcs, they were Uruk-Hai. In the end, Boromir was killed and the Hobbits and I were carried off by the Orcs." I fell silent.

Then I added in a small voice, "Now that the fever is gone, I remember how Boromir died. That's why I cried."  
"But surely, if you know how to fight, you have seen many warriors die?" Éowyn asked. "And he's a hero now, he has returned to the halls of his forebears in glory."  
I looked at Éowyn. Back on earth there had been moments when I had thought the same, dreaming of a world with heroes and great deeds, dreaming of myself as a fearless knight…

"I am no warrior," I said in a small voice. "I was with the company, because I have some knowledge that was thought to be of use to the quest. I was taught a little about how to fight so that I would not be a burden for the fellowship. Boromir is the first person I saw die in my life."  
"You must have lived in a very sheltered place if that is the case," Éowyn remarked.  
"You could say that," I agreed.  
"I still don't understand your fretting. You say that Lord Denethor's son died bravely. You should honour his valour and not demean his deeds by crying like a child," her tone was now slightly condescending.

I bit my lip and restrained myself from giving an angry answer.

Éowyn was not likely to understand my view of life and death, formed as it was by the European culture of the twentieth century. The Rohirrim were a people of warriors. Their society was archaic. An honourable death on the battle-field would be preferred to a peaceful death in one's old age here. I knew that.

And Boromir would probably tell me the same, if he still could. He had been unable to resist the lure of the ring. But in dying for the fellowship, he had redeemed himself, he had kept his honour. This would be more important to him than any regrets over the life he would never have now.

_He is at peace now_, I thought and I knew that it was true. My heart lifted a little at that thought, although I was still filled with grief.

"I miss him," I said finally. "I had no chance to say farewell."  
"Did you love him?" Éowyn asked me point-blank.  
I stared at her. Were all the Rohirrim so embarrassingly direct?  
"No," I said in a low voice, swallowing tears. "But I might have."

**ooo**

Aragorn's healing hands had truly impressive powers. But I had been also exceedingly lucky. The cut across my jaw, my throat and my breast had been quite shallow. It had also narrowly missed my carotid artery.

The other scratches had been shallow, too. My right arm had been badly strained and bruised, but it was probably not broken. Or at least it had been only what they call a "green break", where the bones are not broken completely, but only splintered. The ropes around my wrists and ankles however had cut deeply into my flesh, in places down to the bone. I would never lose those scars for as long as I would live. But I had not been raped or molested or eaten; apparently the Rohirrim had interrupted the orcs before their idea of fun had really started.

What _had_ almost killed me had been the wet clothes. The wet clothes together with the blood-loss had made me an easy victim for pneumonia. Without Aragorn's healing touch and the miracle of _athelas_, I would have been dead before I reached Edoras.

The fever had broken only in the morning of the first of March.  
It would be days yet before I would be up and about again.


	25. Visitors

**25. Visitors**

When I woke the next time, a young girl of about sixteen sat on the chair next to my bed. The girl was fair haired and blue eyed, with a rosy complexion and dressed in a simple homespun dress dyed in brown colours. A maid-servant, probably. 

I did not say anything but lay very still, trying to get reacquainted with my body and my mind. I felt strangely removed from reality, from my body, from my memories.

After Éowyn asked me if I had loved Boromir, she did not make any further comment or ask any question. She simply remained sitting at my bedside, keeping me silent company while I cried with the grief of my first coherent memories of Amon Hen and the awful days of captivity. When I had cried myself out, she disappeared for a moment only to return with a cup of hot herbal tea, probably some kind of tranquilizer. I guess that I had needed it. Anyway, I fell asleep at once and there had not been any dreams at all.

Now I was wide awake. My head felt reasonably clear. The fever had not returned.  
But I hurt. My wrists and my ankles hurt. My whole body felt terribly bruised and sore. Apparently I had still been under the effect of some painkiller when I woke the first time, but now it had worn off. Especially my thighs and my hips hurt as if I had been pounded with a great hammer. I closed my eyes as a wave of sickness swept over me. Memories of dark shapes closing in on me, of claws ripping at me, of a heavy weight on my body assailed me.

_It's over_, I thought desperately. _It's over and I am alive and they are dead, every single one of them. _

Éowyn had told me that I had not been raped. I had been beaten up and violated, but I had kept my honour. The Rohirrim had been in time. But with the pain I felt now and the nightmarish memories that lingered in my mind, the distinction between violation and penetration escaped me. I closed my eyes again but could not stifle a low moan.

"My lady, are you alright? Do you feel any pain?" a soft voice asked me and a tender, warm hand was placed on my forehead.

I opened my eyes again. The girl had risen from her chair and was leaning over me, her expression worried. I cleared my throat. That hurt, too. When I spoke, my voice was hoarse.  
"I'm alright. But I feel horrible. Like so much pounded meat." I tried to grin at her, but I don't think I was very successful, judging from her expression of pity and horror. She obviously had been told exactly what had happened to me.  
"If you think you will be alright for a while, I will get you a soothing draught that will take away the pain and something to eat," the girl said.  
"Sure, no problem," I croaked. She cast me a dubious look but hurried out of the room.

**ooo**

I tried to sit up, but I felt weak like a kitten. I barely managed to draw myself up against the headboard into a half-lying, half-sitting position. I looked around the room. Everything was as it had been when I woke for the first time. The light that came through the window was perhaps a bit brighter. I thought that it might be in the middle of the afternoon, but I could not be sure of that. 

Then someone knocked on the door of my room.

"Yes?" I called out. My voice was painfully husky and shaking.

The door opened slowly to admit a stooped figure. It was an old man in white robes with long white hair and a flowing white and silver beard. He straightened up and looked at me with piercing blue eyes. In his right hand he held a wooden staff carved of a pale wood that gleamed whitely.

My heart skipped a beat and my assorted aches were instantly forgotten.  
"Gandalf?" I whispered. My heart started to race and an unbelievable feeling of joy rose up inside of me. _ "Gandalf?" _  
The old wizard smiled at me. "Yes, I am Gandalf again, for a little while."  
He walked towards my bed, his keen eyes never leaving me. He looked me up and down in intense scrutiny. An expression of sorrow and regret passed over his face. He has changed, I thought. He is not as unreadable anymore. _ Strange. _

The wizard sat down on the chair next to my bed.  
"Lothíriel," he said, as if to confirm that I still was the girl he had known in his previous – _life? Incarnation? _

"Yes," I said. _ I am Lothíriel. Though I am not the same as I was. _ I knew this was true. Too much had happened since the wizard had fallen into that chasm in Moria.

Before Moria, perhaps even before Amon Hen, I would probably have asked if what I had done was right, if I had been able to change things, if things could have been differently…  
But now I could not find any question to ask the wizard.

I was so tired.

"I will answer your questions nevertheless," Gandalf said. "Or at least some of them. I am here. I am the White Wizard. Had you tried to change things at Moria, I would not have been able to become the power I need to be. And you did change things, important things. Boromir frightened Frodo; that is true. But he did not try to take the ring from him."

"He did not?" I asked, incredulous.

Gandalf took my hand, squeezing it gently. His hand was warm and rough, callused from handling swords and staffs, even though he had only just been sent back to Middle-earth.

"No, he did not. He was losing his mind. You noticed that. But he kept his honour, and he kept his soul."  
"Why couldn't he have survived then?" I asked, tears burning in my eyes again. "If he did not fall for the ring, then why did he have to die?"  
Gandalf sighed. "In the end, he would not have been strong enough. He realized that himself when he ran away from Frodo at Amon Hen."

"But I managed to… fight off the lure of the ring!" I said defiantly.  
Gandalf nodded thoughtfully. "That is true. And I have wondered at that myself. But Glorfindel taught you how to shield your mind and he bestowed upon you a kind of Elvish blessing that is rarely given to anyone. However, what is even more important is, I think, that the enemy does not realize the power of women or the little folk, the Hobbits. He does not think that there can ever be anything to fear from such weak beings as women or Halflings. He fears warriors and kings. It is his flaw, and our only chance."

I swallowed down my tears. In my heart I knew that Gandalf was right. But although I knew that I should rejoice at the thought that Boromir had in fact been able to defy the ring in that deciding moment, the knowledge that this had not, and could not, have changed the outcome of the subsequent events weighed heavily on my heart.  
"That is alright, Lothíriel. I understand your grief. But someday, perhaps, the knowledge will comfort you when you look back. When the pain of the loss is not as new and as acute as it is now." Gandalf smiled at me, a smile that was full of understanding and compassion.

"But to the matters at hand," he continued, his voice brisk.

I looked at him and suddenly I felt apprehensive, my thoughts racing. Matters at hand? That could only mean the Battle at Helm's Deep.

The wizard raised his eyebrows at me. "Indeed it does; and the battles to come. But you have been badly injured and you will be weak for some time yet. Therefore your part in the journeys of the members of the fellowship is almost over. In a few days Aragorn will return to Edoras. When he sets out again, he shall take you with him. Because there is one thing I would ask of you yet. I want you to go to Dol Amroth, where Prince Imrahil dwells. I have a message for the Prince; and in these evil times no warrior can be spared to bear my message hence. Boromir's father, the steward of Gondor, has neglected to muster an army in the defence of Gondor. Prince Imrahil has to come to Minas Tirith on his own, unbidden, with every man he can spare.  
He has to be there at the fourteenth of March at the latest. At the moment the Prince dwells in Tarnost; he has already gathered an army to defend his own lands, for he is one who still sees clearly and farther than most; he knows that war is almost upon us. But there has been no news from Minas Tirith and no call to arms has come – so now Imrahil tarries and doubt is in his mind. He must_ not _doubt. The King is on his way to Minas Tirith. Prince Imrahil has to cast aside all doubt and fear. He has to be in Minas Tirith without fail, ready for war."

He paused, and then gave me a stern look. "_You_, however, will not go to Minas Tirith. When it can be helped, a war is not a place for women. Stay at Tarnost, or perhaps you can be escorted to Dol Amroth to stay there with Prince Imrahil's family until… until the fate of this world is decided."

I stared at Gandalf, completely bewildered and not a little shocked. I recalled reading about Prince Imrahil. He had led many hundred warriors to the Battle of the Pelennor. He and his men had played an important part in the defence of Minas Tirith. And I should be responsible for calling him to battle?

Then I recalled how far the Stone of Erech was from Edoras, and Tarnost – if I remembered correctly that was a fortress at the northern edge of the hills of Tarnost – was at least another one hundred and fifty miles to the east. How should I get there in time? Especially if the Prince's army had to be in Minas Tirith on the fourteenth?

"You will have to ride. I will choose your mount myself and tell the horse your name. It will have to be one of the Mearas. King Théoden will not like that, but at the moment there is nothing he would refuse me," Gandalf told me, his expression grim.

I just stared at him. Then I gulped nervously. "I have never ridden a horse in my life."  
Gandalf sighed and shook his head. "Then it will _definitely_ have to be one of the Mearas. – Don't worry, Lothíriel, the horses of Oromë never let any rider fall from their backs they have agreed to carry. And there simply is no warrior we can spare. If there was, you can be sure I would not dream of sending you."

_Thank you for that vote of confidenc_e, I thought. _That is really most reassuring, especially out of the mouth of a wizard. _ And there was something – a flicker in the depths of his eyes, as if there was something he did not tell me…

Gandalf raised his bushy eyebrows at me. "This was not intended to belittle you, my dear girl. I know your pain and I know your grief. For that reason I would have preferred to grant you a real respite from the struggles and turmoil of this war. But alas! It cannot be. I remind you, it was you who has chosen this world as your own, and all its toil. And now you have to stick it out, I'm afraid."  
I blushed hotly. "I did not want to imply that I did not want to go, or that I have had enough. Well, I have had enough, but that goes for many here, I guess, including many of the fellowship. But there is nothing to be done, I know that very well. The war has not even started yet. There is no choice for any of us but to see this through." I paused. _To see this through to whatever end…_I hoped I would be alive to see that end. To see that pain and sacrifice had not bee in vain. I wanted to see that. I pressed my lips together firmly. I _would _see that!

With a much firmer and clearer voice I continued, "I have chosen this world. I have not forgotten what you said about the turmoil of each world, Gandalf! I have chosen this world. And even battered and bruised as I am right now, I don't regret it. And I would not dream of fleeing from the darkness if there was anything left that I could do to help you."  
I glared at the wizard.  
Every word that I had said was true. Even though I was battered and bruised in the truest sense of the meaning, I did not regret one day or one wound that I had received. The strange sense of belonging that had grown in my heart since the first steps on the road towards Bree was not diminished with the pain and the grief. If anything, I felt more strongly for this world and her struggles.

There was a merry twinkling in the bright blue eyes of the wizard.

I felt a frown grow on my face as I realized that I had been very subtly and deftly manipulated by Gandalf. However changed the wizard might be, he had forgotten none of his old tricks. I smiled at Gandalf, a sudden, overwhelming happiness spreading through me from my head to my toes, because he was back, because he was alive and well and because he had returned to us, just like the stories promised.

"Right," I said. "Aragorn and the Dúnedain come to Edoras –"  
I bit my tongue at the sudden gleam in Gandalf's eyes. He had obviously not known about the Grey Company. I swallowed hard. I had to watch my mouth. I realized that the knowledge of things to come that I had was still dangerous.

"Aragorn comes to Edoras in a few days," I continued. "I hope you remember to tell him that I am to accompany him to the Stone of Erech. He will not like that idea. And I really don't like arguing with Aragorn. Okay, provided that you have told Aragorn about my task, I will go to the stables and get on that horse you have promised will carry me faster than any other horse alive… save Shadowfax, of course."

Gandalf snorted at that in an undignified way. I ignored him and went on, "I stay with Aragorn until we reach the Stone. Then I tell the horse to run like hell and make for Tarnost. I tell Prince Imrahil that I have a message for him from Gandalf the White. I tell him to make for Minas Tirith with his army at once and that he has to be there on the fourteenth of March at the latest. He marches away and I remain at Tarnost or make for Dol Amroth. Is that correct?"

Gandalf smiled at me and squeezed my hand again. "Indeed, that is exactly what I want you to do. And I will make sure that Aragorn does not argue with you in this case. May the wind be always at your back, Lothíriel! I hope that we will meet again and that this day should be a day of joy and happiness for all of us."

He rose from the chair in a swift, fluid movement that seemed strangely incongruent with his ancient appearance. Then he cocked his head as if he was listening for something.  
"Another visitor for you. I'll be on my way. Remember, the Mearas understand what you say. I always find they react best to Sindarin. Put your lessons to good use. And perhaps take some _athelas_ salve with you."

With that cryptic remark he nodded at me and left. The door closed without a sound behind Gandalf. I stared at the door, feeling completely bewildered.

I would ride as a messenger of war, bearing a summons to take up arms against the forces of Mordor... My hands were suddenly cold and I felt my heart beat quickly with nervousness.  
Riding one of the Mearas. I gulped. Horses were so_ big_!  
_ "The horses of Oromë never let any rider fall from their backs they have agreed to carry…"_  
I could only hope that the wizard had been right. He had been right about most things.  
Why should he be mistaken this time? And after all, I did remember that Prince Imrahil had been in time for the Battle of the Pelennor.  
_Yeah, sure… but there had been nothing in the books about anyone bringing him a message to get his army to Minas Tirith on the fourteenth of March…_

**ooo**

Suddenly the door opened again. I expected to see the maid-servant with a tray. Instead I looked at a handsome man. He wore leather trousers and a red shirt, but his tunic was of a deep green fabric. He was probably as tall as Aragorn but more powerfully built if not as heavily muscled as Boromir had been. He had clear cut features that somehow reminded me of Éowyn, although his hair was darker, and his eyes were dark and warm. His eyes!

Suddenly I remembered the eyes. Dark eyes looking down at me, tangled, dark blond hair surrounding that face, strong arms holding me as I cried in pain and horror.  
A beautiful, dark voice soothing me like a frightened child.  
Éomer. The Third Marshal of the Mark. The future King of Rohan.

I lowered my gaze, feeling heat rise to my cheeks in embarrassment when I realized what a state I must have been in when he found me.

"My lady," he said softly, remaining at the door. "How are you? May I disturb your rest for a bit?" His voice was even more beautiful than I remembered it. I had often read the phrase that a voice sounded "like honeyed mead" and thought this expression more than silly. No voice could sound like that, I thought. Especially not a male voice. But here it was. A dark voice, rough at the edges and yet smooth and warm like eiderdown.  
"Of course you may," I said. Blushing even harder, I added. "My lord."  
Gods, I had no idea how to address him properly! Or Prince Imrahil either for that matter.

Éomer walked to my bed in three easy, powerful strides. He sat down, shoving the chair back a little. He seemed unsure of what to say.

"Thank you, my lord," I said finally to break the silence. "You saved my life. Thank you."  
Then I laughed softly. "_'Thank you' _seems so inadequate. There is no way I can tell you –"  
"There is no need, my lady. I am glad that we were in time to stop those vile beasts –"  
"I am glad, too." I shuddered violently. The memories of dark shapes closing in on me once more rose unbidden in my mind. Nausea swept through me. I closed my eyes. I must have made some sound, too.

Suddenly I felt my hands gripped by large, warm hands and held tightly.  
I smelt a fragrance of leather mixed with straw and perhaps horse, the smell of warm, living fur lingering and some kind of spicy soap, probably vetiver.  
A strange tingling feeling rushed through my body.  
My eyes flew open.

Éomer held my hands and watched me with a worried expression on his face.  
"My lady, is everything alright?"  
I said the first thing that came to my mind, "No, of course not."  
Then I added, "But I think it will be alright. Maybe."  
"I pray that it shall be so," he said, his gaze full of warmth, his tone comforting. "I am glad to find you much improved before I go."  
"Go?" I asked, my thoughts confused again.  
"Yes," Éomer replied simply. "The Rohirrim ride to war. The evil minions of Isengard are on their way to attack Rohan. This very evening the Riders of Rohan leave for battle. We ride to Helm's Deep to defend our people and our country. I wanted to see how you are before I go."  
"I am fine, my lord. Because of you, I am fine. I'm still a bit bruised, but that will mend soon," I said, my voice trembling slightly, unsure of what to say or do.  
"I am happy for that!" Éomer said and smiled at me. "To know that I could save you and that you will be well again shall aid my strength in the battles to come. I bid you farewell now, my lady, and take care! I hope that we will meet again when the war is won and evil is defeated, once and for all."

He let go of my hands and rose to his feet.  
"Goodbye, my lady."  
"My name is Lothíriel," I said, feeling slightly hypnotized by his dark, dark eyes."May the blessings of the One and the Valar be with you, my Lord!"  
He stared back at me. "My name is Éomer."  
"Éomer, then." I repeated, looking mesmerized at his face.  
"Thank you for your blessing, Lothíriel," Éomer said softly, his voice a sweet, dark caress.  
"Goodbye."

Then he was gone.

**ooo**

When the door opened the next time, it was the maid-servant bearing a large tray.  
She begged my pardon for taking such a long time, but it was such a mess in the kitchens what with the men preparing for battle, and everyone running around in a frenzy.  
I told her that I didn't mind. She smiled at me, looking relieved. "Were you able to sleep for a bit, my lady? You look already much better! Your cheeks have some colour again, and your eyes are bright!"

I smiled back, my thoughts in a confused tumble. I did not mention my visitors.  
"Now you have to eat and then go right back to sleep. Come morning you will feel much better. Perhaps you can even get up for a bit!" the girl chattered on as she helped me to sit up and put the tray across my thighs. "Now, do you think you can manage the spoon? Or should I help?"

I felt weak. But I did not feel quite that weak. I raised my eyebrows at her. But she was quite serious with her offer. I did manage to eat on my own. But it was more of an effort than I had thought possible. My wrists hurt abominably and my right arm ached from my fingers to the shoulder and right up to my neck. I was so weary from the excitement of the afternoon and the strain of eating that I was almost too weary to drink the soothing herbal tea that the girl prepared for me. When I had finished the tea, I fell asleep instantly.

I never knew how the girl removed the tray and helped me to lie down again.  
I was far away, lost in soothing dreams.

**oooOooo**

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JunoMagic


	26. Waiting

**26. Waiting**

I woke, screaming. My throat hurt from my screams. Only slowly did I make sense of my surroundings. I was in my room in Edoras. I must have thrashed around in my sleep. In my nightmares. I was completely tangled in the bed clothes. It was an effort to free myself from the blankets and sheets wrapped around me. This feeling of being wrapped up and bound probably accounted for the nightmares. And my memories of being wrapped up and bound, of course. 

I shivered uncontrollably. Vague memories of black faces, slit yellow eyes, sharp fangs, claws grabbing at my body pressed in on my mind, making me feel sick to the stomach.  
During the night the painkiller had worn off again, too, and my wrists and ankles now hurt badly. My head throbbed dully along to the rhythm of the painful pulse in the wounds at my wrists and ankles. I felt horribly weak.

And I needed to go to the bathroom. I tried to sit up in bed. I was successful at the second attempt. _See, Lothíriel, you're not hurt all that bad! _

I swung my legs around and tried to stand. My knees buckled. I slumped back down on the bed. _I need to go to the bathroom! _ I did so not want to use the chamber pot that sat on the low stool next to the nightstand. I was not a cripple! Furious tears filled my eyes. _ I am not that weak. I** can't** be that weak! _

I tried again. This time I remained standing, wobbling precariously.  
I clutched at the back of the chair, thinking that I might get to the door if I managed to hold on to the chair. _Please, God, don't let the privy be far away from my room! _

**ooo**

The door opened. Éowyn entered the room, looking furious. I slumped back down on the bed. 

"Good morning, my lady," I said politely.  
Éowyn rounded on me with blazing eyes. I could not help myself, but I shrank back from her anger. Taken aback, she inhaled deeply and sat down on the chair. Her hands were clenched to fists.

"May I ask why you are so angry?" I ventured bravely.  
"Manage the household!" she exploded. "As if, in a time like this, there was nothing better I could do with myself! Manage the household! Calm the people! Prepare the Halls of Healing! Why did I have to be born a woman!" She closed her mouth, tightening her lips into a thin white line.

I blinked at her, surprised at this unexpected outburst. I had taken her for a rather cool and composed person. Who would have thought that there was such a hot temper hidden under her coolness? Well, Tolkien had, if I recalled the stories correctly. _And who was Tolkien anyway that he knew so much about Middle-earth…_

"They rode off to war, to defend our people and our country, leaving me behind to do the cleaning!" Éowyn interrupted my thoughts. My, was she mad. I remained silent. If someone is angry like that, you have to let them vent off their fury, even if it is really unreasonable. A little bit of sympathy, faked or real, will calm down such anger much more quickly than any attempt at setting someone right.

I knew what had happened, too. Éowyn had wanted to go with the warriors to defend her people with the sword. Instead she had been appointed to rule the Rohirrim in Théoden's place for as long as he would be gone.

This was – as far as I knew, anyway – an unprecedented honour for a woman in the history of Rohan, and there was no doubt in my mind that a lot of responsibility went with that honour.  
Éowyn was an intelligent woman. She would know very well just how great an honour it was for her to be named regent in the absence of the king. She would know just as well that it was necessary to maintain some kind of order here in the capital.  
There was no need to point that out to her. That would only make her angry with me. I did not want to have that formidable warrior maiden angry at me.

"You will want to use the bathroom now that you are better," Éowyn said briskly, changing the topic somewhat abruptly.  
"Yes, I would," I said. "Only, my knees are still kind of wobbly. Is it far?"  
Éowyn sighed. Having vented off her temper, she was calm and business-like again.  
"No, it is just outside, across the courtyard. Whatever some people may say, the Rohirrim are a civilized people."

And who had teased her about bathrooms? Not Legolas or Aragorn, I thought. Gimli?  
"By the way," Éowyn suddenly smiled at me. "Aragorn, Legolas and that dwarf send their best wishes. They could not come and visit you yesterday because you were too exhausted and they had to leave in a hurry. But they asked me to tell you how happy they are that you escaped, and that they hope you will recover soon. They were very worried about you. Especially Aragorn."

The last two words held a certain tension. I swallowed hard. This was the time where I should probably tell her… something… anything… I had never been any good at girl talk. I sighed. Best get it over with quickly. Not that it will help. It never does. I knew that all too well from my own heartaches back on earth, which had involved unattainable men…

"You know that Aragorn is betrothed, do you?" I said bluntly.  
She stared at me. "Who… how… why do you say that?"  
"I saw a gleam in your eyes just then." I am not only no good at girl talk. I hate girl talk. "His heart is far away and always will be. Trust me on that. If it's not too late, turn your heart away from him."  
"You?" She hissed at me, her eyes narrowing dangerously.  
I gaped at her for a moment, confounded. Then I laughed out loud. "What do you take me for? A slut? I am perhaps not a lady such as you are, but I am not an easy girl. No. I have accompanied Aragorn and the Halflings for many weeks now. We travelled together from Bree to Rivendell, Imladris, and then from Imladris to Moria, to Lórien and Amon Hen.  
I met his betrothed in Imladris, that is all. I just saw how your eyes lit up when you said his name. I know heartache." I tried in vain not to think about Boromir. "And if you fall for Aragorn, you only set yourself up for some serious heartache."

She looked at me for a long moment. The tension and the anger slowly drained from her face as if she had to make a conscious effort to calm herself. She believed me. I suppressed a sigh. Éowyn made me nervous. I had the feeling that she might easily draw a sword or produce a knife if someone made her too angry.

Finally she inclined her head. When she looked up again there was some kind of shadow in her grey eyes, a hint of a dark emotion, longing and pain, perhaps; a lonely yearning for love and a kindred spirit. "I'm afraid it is too late for that. But thank you for your warning. I should have made an utter fool of myself."

Then she rose from the chair, effectively ending our conversation.  
"I will help you to the bathing house. Put your arm around my back. – Yes, like that. – Oops! I've got you, Lothy, don't worry, I won't let you fall!" She was very strong for a woman, far stronger than I was, even though she was slimmer.

**ooo**

It was a slow, exhausting progress from my room out into the courtyard, across the courtyard and into the bathing house. It was not just a privy, but a privy attached to a real bathing house.  
It was not as luxurious as the elvish bathes I had seen, but it was very nice. It reminded me of the spa facilities labelled "Swedish" in Germany. There was a whirlpool and a sauna, a wooden bath tub and a shower with icy water. The water was taken from the spring below the Great Hall, Éowyn explained. It was led to the bathing house in a tunnel. The used water from the bathes was used to flush out the latrines, and the dirty water was led out of the city in another set of tunnels. 

"We have another system of tunnels working like that in the lower city on each side of the channel. It is still new. There has been no more killing sickness of the bowels in the Lower City since we have had it installed. Théodred devised it. He loved building, more than he loved practicing with his sword and bow," she fell silent rather abruptly. Théodred was the King's only son who had died at the hands of some orcs not very long ago. Her cousin. There had been nothing about what kind of person he had been in the books, I remembered. So he had been an architect, not a warrior… Had he spent more time with his weapons and less time on building things, he might still be alive today.

Suddenly I recalled a history lesson from way back at school. _ "You have to understand that being able to choose what to do with your life, or even what to do to make a living, is a very new phenomenon. Not only for women, but also for men. Not very long ago it went without saying that the oldest son inherited the business or the lands of the father and that the younger sons became soldiers or monks. There was no choice at all…"_  
I sighed. _I_ had chosen to come here…

It was pure bliss to be able to use the toilet on my own. I would have died of shame if I had had to use the chamber pot in front of Éowyn. In the process I got a good look at my thighs. There were deep gashes on my hips and on my thighs. My inner thighs were black and violet with bruises and there were some more cuts there, crusted with blood, but it was really only the thighs; no deeper place had been touched. I felt immeasurably relieved. But it was no wonder my whole body ached so horribly.

Éowyn made me take a warm bath, to which she added herbs and oils. She took off the bandages from my breast and neck, my wrists and ankles. I have to confess that I screamed when she tore off the bandages where the fabric had stuck to the wounds, soaked with dried blood. The wounds around my wrists and ankles had been tidily stitched. Looking at the stitches made me feel slightly sick.

"Now, you may not remain in the water for long. I don't want those wounds to reopen. But cleanliness is next to goodliness my old nurse always said. And I agree in so far as that it simply feels better to be clean all over. There was no way to really wash you when my brother brought you to Edoras. You were in a right state" Éowyn told me, surprisingly gentle in scrubbing my back. Then she started on my hair, lathering it with a soap that smelled faintly of chamomile. Then she rinsed it thoroughly with lukewarm water.

Afterwards she helped me out of the tub and wrapped me in a large blanket.  
"Sit down on that bench. I have to put salve on all those gashes and have to look which of the cuts still need bandages."  
"Was I really in such a bad shape?" I asked. I felt very weak still, but the warm water had subdued the pain to a comparatively comfortable ache.  
Éowyn, who had walked over to some shelves containing jars and bottles of many shapes and sizes, turned to me, her expression serious.  
"I have no idea how you survived," she said simply.  
I gulped.

She returned with a jar of _athelas_ salve. With gentle fingers she lathered the salve on my assorted cuts and bruises. "I think it will be enough to bandage those wrists and ankles of yours. As I told you before, the fever was the real danger. Those cuts and bruises should heal soon, and heal well. The wrists and ankles will take time. You have no idea how lucky you were that no tendon was cut. You might very well never have been able to walk again."  
I gulped again.

"So, that's it. Now it's back to bed for you." She helped me up and supported me every step back to my room. _She might prefer being a shield-maiden_, I thought, _but she is a very good healer all the same. _ Éowyn knew how to take care of people and putting them at ease, even if the treatment was painful, or concerned intimate areas.

By the time I was back in my bed, I was completely exhausted again.  
Weak as a kitten. In every word of the meaning.  
"Don't worry, you will feel much better tomorrow," Éowyn promised. "Now sleep an hour or two and then I will have a nice dinner brought to you. And in the morning you will feel like a new woman."  
"I'd be content to settle for little old me – with no pain," I said somewhat wryly.  
She smiled at that. "Don't worry, Lothíriel," she repeated. "All will be well."

Then she was gone.

I realized that I had not thanked her at all. And why had she taken care of me herself? She had spent more than two hours with me, and managing Edoras had to be quite a task. She had to be pretty busy without taking care of wounded strangers. She could have had any maid-servant take care of me.

Why had she spent so much time and energy on me?

I was neither a hero nor a noble. There was no reason at all why Éowyn herself should take care of me. I could not believe that either Gandalf or Aragorn would have asked for any special treatment for me. Strange. I would have to ask her about that later.  
But in the meantime I was too weary and aching to give that matter much further thought.  
For a time I lay in the warmth of my bed and simply enjoyed being clean and in not too much pain. After some time I drifted off into a deep and dreamless slumber.

**ooo**

It was already late in the evening when I woke again. 

I felt much better. I was clean and I was not in any real pain. Only a dull throbbing reminded me of my wrists and ankles. I was not awake for long when the door opened to admit the round faced, blond maid-servant who had been sitting with me the day before.

"Good evening, my lady," she said in a soft voice. In one hand she held a tray, in the other a candle stick. She set down the tray on the nightstand. Then she swiftly moved around the room and lit several candles set in sconces at the far wall. She returned to my bed and lit the large white candle on the nightstand. Now the room was almost bright.

"How are you, my lady," the girl inquired politely. "Are you hungry? I was told to bring you some supper."  
My stomach rumbled noisily as I inhaled the delicious aroma of what was probably a hearty vegetable soup. I felt heat rise in my cheeks.  
"Yes," I said. "I am hungry. Sorry."  
The girl only smiled. She helped me sit up in the bed and deftly put the tray across my thighs.  
"Do you wish for company, my lady?" the girl asked.  
I frowned. I had never before encountered servants in my life. Apart from Rivendell. I was uncomfortable with servants. I simply did not know how to treat them.  
In the end I smiled at the girl. "No, thank you. I am sure you have a lot to do. I don't want to keep you from your work needlessly."  
She indicated a curtsy and then left the room.

**ooo**

On the tray there was a bowl of soup, a chunk of fresh brown bread, a piece of orange cheese and a mug of dark beer. The beer was strong and good. My heart warmed towards the Rohirrim. The people of Franconia, where I had grown up, prided themselves to have the largest number of active breweries per square mile. It's hard to live there and not develop a taste for beer. The beer in Bree had been weak and watery. In Rivendell and Lórien there had been only wine and water. Wondrous wine and wondrous water to be sure. But this taste of tart, aromatic beer made me feel at home. 

The food was very good, too. To be able to eat slowly, to savour the taste – heaven!  
On the journey there had not been many occasions where we had been able to enjoy our meals and the food had been cold and pretty monotonous.  
I had to enjoy this little bit of paradise as long as it lasted.  
_As long as it lasted…_

When would Aragorn return to Edoras with the Dúnedain? I tried to remember from the stories, but for the most part there had been no dates in the text. I knew that there were dates in the appendix, but I had never read the appendices really thoroughly. I had looked for my name in them, but that had been about it.

My name… the woman I was named for had been the daughter of Prince Imrahil. Perhaps I would meet her when I reached Tarnost. _I would like that very much_, I thought. _Just to see if my mother named me after a nice person. _

Perhaps I would be able to leave my bed tomorrow. I should meet that horse Gandalf had told me about. I should also have a look at a map of Gondor, so that I knew where I had to go from the Stone of Erech. Had Éowyn been told about my task? Probably not. She would have thrown a fit. Yippee… I get to tell a warrior maiden with a real hot temper that I have been appointed a task even though I am not back to health or strength and she has to stay at home.  
She was going to love that.

I shuddered.

Éomer seemed to be so _much_ more easy-going than his sister.  
_Éomer…_  
He had really beautiful eyes…  
…and an interesting voice.  
I would like to hear him sing one day…  
He seemed to be a very nice man, too.  
The other Lothíriel, the daughter of this Prince Imrahil, would probably be a very happy wife in a few years, I mused.  
In a few years… where would I be in a few years?  
In Rohan?  
In Gondor?

Provided, of course, that everything turned out as it was in the books.  
Up until now it had been pretty much the way as it had been described in the stories.  
_But not everything_, a small voice in the back of my mind objected. _Some things were different from the start. And some things changed because of your interference. _  
I rubbed at my forehead, irritated at the road my thoughts were taking. _But I did not change much. And some things I changed for the better. _  
_That's what you think_, the voice seemed to be saying.

I put the emptied tray to the side and lay back down.

_Yes_, I thought. _That's what I think. What I hope. What I **have** to believe. _

But the fact remained that living in Middle-earth now, at this particular time, faced with darkness and war, the promise of a happy ending seemed very fragile, very distant and not very substantial.

It was like the promise of paradise in the Christian religions of earth. Some people believe that paradise is as real as another country. But even if you have such a strong belief, you have to live out your life and die to get there. There is no real way of knowing what will happen until it does happen.

That was about the way I felt, lying in my bed that night. In my thoughts I was clinging to a promise of paradise, of a war won, an enemy defeated. But the road to that promise of paradise was long and dark and I had no idea at all what awaited me around the next corner of that road.


	27. Horse!

**A/N: **This chapter is dedicated to Yavannië, friend and dedicated reviewer, wonderful writer, who helped me writing about horses.

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**oooOooo **

**27. Horse!**

Éowyn was right. Completely clean and with a good night's sleep, I felt much better in the morning. I still felt weak as I rose and was content to wash quickly with ewer and bowl. But my knees were no longer quite as wobbly as on the day before. The maid-servant brought some clean clothing for me. The clothes were well made, but the fabric was not as finely made as the clothes I had brought with me from earth or the elvish things I had been given in Rivendell and in Lórien. But as my own things had once again been taken away to be washed and mended, I had no choice. And in the end I did feel quite comfortable in the tights, shirt and long tunic that were presented to me.

My wrists and ankles still ached and moving around the large gash across jaw, throat and breast tightened painfully now and again, but altogether I felt pretty good, if not exactly right as rain.

The maid-servant whose name was Alina escorted me to Éowyn's own rooms to join the lady for breakfast. Breakfast turned out to be porridge and tea. It was hot and filling. The porridge had been cooked with milk, not with water, and there were bits of dried fruit in it. The tea was strong and golden. A promising beginning of the day, I thought – relaxing slightly.

Éowyn was silent during breakfast. She was evidently not a morning person. She put a sheaf of parchments on the table next to her bowl of porridge. She leafed through the parchments while she ate, now and then shaking her head and snorting. That was probably a list of her tasks for the day. Although I had no idea what ruling a kingdom exactly entailed, it was probably rather more work than running a big company. And there was less staff to spread the work around than in a democracy. If it came down to it, pretty much everything was her decision while her uncle was away.

Finished with breakfast, Éowyn looked up and smiled. "There is a lot to do today. If you want to, you can keep me company this morning. I will have to listen to complaints brought before the Council and decide a number of administrative problems concerning the defense of the city. But I warn you, it will be rather boring."  
"I would be glad to come with you and listen, my lady," I told her. "At home I was a law student; I was training to become a judge or lawyer."  
She raised her eyebrows at me. "A wise woman? Who would have thought… then you are most welcome. Those things give me a headache. Perhaps you can tell me more about your home, between the consultations."  
I bit down on my lips. _My big mouth._ Again. Now _what_ should I tell her?  
The truth? Gandalf hadn't said what I should do when anyone – and Éowyn was not exactly anyone – asked who I was and where I came from.

But I was lucky – or was I? – that day at least I was spared from having to decide just what to tell Éowyn about me and my origins. In the first lull between the various audiences and consultations a small, scrawny messenger boy clad in the royal green livery arrived. He could not be more than nine or ten years old, with brown hair and chocolate brown eyes, desperately thin, with trousers that were way too short for his quickly growing legs.

He had a letter from Gandalf to the Lady Éowyn.

She took the letter graciously and sent the boy off to the kitchen to have something to eat in reward for the prompt delivery of the message.  
She broke the red seal, stamped with the elvish rune of "G" – that is, the single stroke down and the three thin lines pointing diagonally away from that line.

She read the letter. Once, twice.

Then she gave me a piercing look, her golden eyebrows drawn together in a frown.  
But she kept her temper perfectly in the company of her scribe and the elderly gentleman present just then. The old man was a councillor at the court, probably a judge or something like that – it seems I can smell it if someone deals in _jurisprudentia_.

She signalled her scribe to give her a piece of parchment, quill and ink. Then she scribbled down a note and told the scribe to seal it with the royal seal.  
"This is a message for the royal equerry," she said, her voice calm and cool. One of several messengers in green livery waiting for errands at the end of the hall scurried forwards. Bowing deeply he accepted the message. He walked backward to the gates of the hall without turning around; apparently the universal sign of respect to royalty, on earth as well as in Middle-earth. The gates were opened for him and he was gone.

Éowyn remained completely still, staring at the gates of the hall for a long moment.  
Then she turned to the scribe and the waiting dignitaries.  
"I think we need a break right now. The remaining questions and matters will be settled in the afternoon. You can come back at two o' clock."  
A dismissal if ever I heard one. And was that a hint of steel in her voice?  
Everyone bowed very low and disappeared as quickly as possible.  
I tried to unobtrusively follow the councillor.  
"Please, stay, Lothíriel," she said, her voice brittle.  
I nodded and turned back, sinking back on my chair.

She jumped up from her large, gilded chair at the head of the long table.  
Her eyes blazed with fury.  
"How can it be," she asked me, her voice dangerously low and calm, "How can it be that you – someone who has never, NEVER sat on a horse in her life, who is not even halfway healed, who is not even a real shield maiden – how can it be that you are chosen for a dangerous task, while I must stay here, minding councillors and babies? How can it be that one of the best horses we ever bred is appointed to _your_ use? How can it be that _you_ get the freedom of travelling all over this world and _I_ get stuck with consultations and audiences and bloody paper work? You fight orcs and win renown and it is actually _you_ who are trained in ways of knowledge and justice! _I_ have been trained as a shield maiden as is the custom of our house, and _I_ get to be a nurse and baby-minder to all and sundry! How can that be? Why are you allowed to shape your life as you see fit and all I may do is obey and obey and obey?"  
She beat her clenched fists down on the table.  
She had never raised her voice, but her fury was blindingly hot.

Talk about the golden cage…  
Listening to her outburst of fury I realized three things.  
One, she trusted me.  
Two, she was lonely as hell.  
Three, if Tolkien thought that this woman would ever mend her ways and become a docile mother and wife, he knew nothing about women.

"Well, travelling with the fellowship was not so much shaping my life as trying to help with… the quest, and trying to stay alive. Renown or glory was the last thing on my mind when I fought those orcs that I can assure you of," I commented.  
She looked at me, and her eyes were red rimmed and glittering with furious tears.  
"But you are here because you chose to be, aren't you? You could have stayed at home with your studies?"

I stared at her for a moment, carefully considering what to say next. Then I thought, _what the hell, I like her and it's not as if she won't go and do her own thing anyway. _  
"Yes," I said. "I could have stayed with my studies. But in my world, I was not needed at all. My knowledge was not needed at all. My courage – what I have of it – was not needed at all. I was pretty much superfluous in that world. And just like you, I wanted more. I met Gandalf, and he thought that my knowledge and perhaps –" I paused, confused with a sudden realization. Then I went on, a sudden, unexpected feeling of joy spreading inside of me. "And perhaps, that I, as a person, might be needed or at least not be… superfluous here, in this world."

"And do you think that you are needed?" Éowyn asked, watching me intently.

I thought about it for a moment, feeling a wave of sadness sweep through my heart all at once, drowning out the happy feeling of only a moment ago. The warm light of the fire in the great fire places of the hall and the golden rays of sunlight drifting down to us through the high light shafts seemed to fade into shadows of gloom.  
"I was, or I think I was," I said softly. "For a time at least. But it was neither my courage nor my knowledge that was needed and least of all my strength as a warrior."  
"What was it then that was needed?" Éowyn asked.  
I looked away from her. Somehow I had the feeling that Éowyn had never really been in love, that even Aragorn was only the first infatuation of a lonely heart. How could she understand what I wanted to say?

I looked up at the great rafters bearing the ceiling of the hall. The ceiling of the Golden Hall of Meduseld looked like the upturned hull of a great sailing ship. There is a great hall in a castle somewhere in England that looks exactly like that, but I cannot remember where.  
Huge, dark beams of wood carved with somehow Celtic designs and gilded with gold held up that ceiling. The smooth wooden planks between those beams were coloured in green and red and blue. Shadows gathered there. But the gold of the great beams gleamed and glittered in that twilight.

"I think it was my compassion that was needed," I said finally.

Éowyn slumped down in her chair again, hiding her face in her hands.  
"Is it so very wrong to wish for a life of my own? Where I can choose my path on my own? A life, where I can become who I want to be?"  
I thought she was crying, but just as I was, Éowyn was not the kind of woman you can simply embrace and soothe like a child.  
"No," I said firmly. "Of course it's not wrong. Where I come from, we believe that everyone, man or woman, should be free to live as he or she wants to, within the laws of the land."  
"I wish I could go there!" Éowyn called out. "And not remain here, in this cage!"  
"Wait, wait, wait –" I interrupted her. "It's not that simple!"  
"Why can't it be that simple?" Éowyn asked rebelliously.

I sighed. What did _I _know about life?

"Look, Éowyn, even if you have the right to basically do what you want to do, there are always restrictions. You have to earn your keep. Then there's the responsibility for your family, your parents, your siblings, your husband, your children. Or if you live for your career, there's responsibility in that, too. And with every choice you make, the freedom you have grows more narrow, until it is very difficult to change your life at all. And I think many people never really think about what they want in life at all, or if they do, they don't really act on their convictions. Life's never that simple. You know that probably better than I do."  
"But I don't want to be imprisoned here for the rest of my life!" she cried. "I know about responsibility, Lothíriel! My life's been _nothing _but responsibility! My life! It's never been my life at all!"  
"I did not say that you should not take your life in your own hands," I told her soothingly. "I was only trying to remind you that, well, when you go out to defend your people and your country and you win all that glory, it will come with strings attached. That's all. This war won't last forever… I hope… and then you will have to make a life as a woman… somewhere… or other…"  
She slowly dropped her hands on the table and looked at me. She was very pale; her eyes were red. She had indeed been crying. She looked at me with a desperate need for comfort in her eyes.  
"Then you would understand if I were to…"  
I held up my hand.  
"Don't tell me anything you might or might not want to do. Your life is your responsibility. If you take your fate into your hands, then so be it; but I don't want to be the one to answer certain personages why I didn't prevent you from… certain… deeds…"

My thoughts were reeling, my mind was fairly spinning.  
_She **had** to go with the host of the Rohirrim, I must** not** discourage her…but I did so not want to face Aragorn or her brother trying to explain why I had not told them about her plans… why I had not prevented her from doing something stupid… …and it has to be her decision…  
I don't think I could have made it to Rivendell and to Amon Hen, if it had not been my decision, my very own, private, personal decision…_

We were quiet for a long moment. Then Éowyn rubbed vigorously at her eyes. "You know, you are the first person I ever met that did not tell me that I should be content to fulfil my duties to my people in the position I was born into," she told me with a weak smile playing around her lips.  
"Well," I said grinning back at her somewhat wryly. "That might be because I did not stay in the position or in the world I was born into myself."

_Or because there's a streak of insanity running in my family…_

**ooo**

"That horse is big," I said, looking at a huge white animal.  
"Yes," the equerry told me, his eyes glowing with pride. "Shadowfax is her sire and there are few horses in all of Rohan which have her stature or her strength."  
I gulped nervously. "It is very beautiful," I ventured.  
"SHE," the equerry said, giving me a look of absolute disgust, "is the pride and joy of our stables. Her name is Mithril."

I stared at the horse, and swallowed dryly.  
I believed his every word. That horse was not only big, she was huge! She was a mountain on hooves! And she certainly seemed to be every bit as tough as Frodo's mail shirt. Muscles of steel rippled across her sides and legs, making her fur gleam in silvery waves.  
"She is indeed very beautiful," I repeated, glancing at the equerry apprehensively.

The tall man of the Rohirrim looked slightly mollified.  
"To allow her to get to know you, you have to introduce yourself. Talk to her and hold out your hand to her, your palm turned upwards, open and relaxed. She will blow her breath at you. You should exhale, too. She wants to smell your breath, she wants to get to know what kind of person you are," he ordered.

Smell my breath? What kind of person I am?

I blinked. A horrible person with no experience with horses and probably bad breath to boot. My tooth paste had been used up quite some time ago.  
And to put my face right in front of that big horse head… I knew that horses ate grass normally, and not Lothíriel, but Mithril had probably quite big teeth nevertheless and if she decided that she did not like me…  
If Gandalf had talked to Mithril, he had certainly asked her not to bite me.  
He would not have forgotten to ask her not to bite me.  
_Wouldn't he? _

He had forgotten to tell Éowyn.  
Perhaps not exactly forgotten.  
He had, after all, sent a letter asking her to give me not just any horse, but to give me this one… Mithril…

_It was a miracle that I was still alive to greet the horse._

_How could one and the same person be so cold and so hot-tempered? _

It was not that I did not like her.  
I did. After this morning's conversation I rather liked her a lot.  
But I would really like to meet a single woman in Middle-earth that was not an immortal elf, beautiful and wise, or a dangerous warrior, beautiful and smart.  
Was there no one around here like me?  
Stumbling, bumbling, and feeling pretty stupid most of the time?

I sighed. Perhaps I would make friends with the Princess Lothíriel.

But to do so I had first to make friends with that horse. I sighed again.

I stepped forward; my arm stretched out, my palm turned up.  
My hand trembled slightly from the effort.  
I tried to ignore the new white bandages around my wrists.  
I looked like a failed suicide.

I looked at the horse and forgot the world around me.  
_Mithril! _  
She had large, liquid eyes. Beautiful, dark eyes, the colour of autumn twilight. A smoky umbra.  
Did you know that horses have lashes?  
She had beautiful lashes, dark, curling softly, the perfect frame for her deep, gentle eyes.  
_Mithril! _  
Her mane was like a cloak of finest silk. Not even the handmaidens of the Lady Galadriel had ever spun such thread. When Mithril moved, her mane flowed around with a faint rustling sound, creating a halo of pure silver.  
_Mithril! _  
She was a tall horse, a strong horse, but perfectly proportioned, slender as a willow tree, clearer than water. A dancer, a sprite, a nymph!  
She snorted softly as if she laughed at me.  
_ "Mithril," _ I whispered. "I am Lothíriel."

She whickered in a low voice. Then she moved towards me, flicking her silvery tail from side to side but moving very slowly as if she was afraid that I would be frightened.  
She lowered her head and touched my palm with her nose, her muzzle.  
Her nose was covered with the softest fur, in a colour that was slightly darker than the rest of her face, a deepening of twilight across a silver sea.  
She snorted again, very softly, blowing her hot, sweet breath in my face.

"Mithril," I whispered again, exhaling softly, involuntarily into the horse's face, enjoying the sound of the name and the closeness to such strength and such beauty. "Will you carry me in a few days? I have to go far away, and I have to hurry. I have to take a message to the Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, who dwells in Tarnost. Much depends on him getting that message as soon as may be. Will you carry me, even though I don't know anything about horses and riding?"

I realized that I had been talking to her as if she was not a horse, but a person. But it had felt just right to talk to her like that. She looked at me as if she was considering what I had told her. Then she tossed her head and neighed loudly. A clarion sound! Bright! Clear! Challenging!

"Is that an answer?" I asked her, confusion mingling with joy.  
She snorted again and lowered her large head. She nuzzled my palm with gentle lips. Then she butted her head against my chest, and I stumbled backwards. I was still weak and tired easily. Mithril raised her head again and gave me a piercing look as if she wanted to say, "And what's with your strength?"

I blushed and nodded. Then I gingerly touched the back of her nose.  
"I promise that I will be strong enough not to embarrass you. I get stronger every day. Soon I will be good as new. I promise."  
Mithril was apparently content with that answer because she turned around and began to eat some hay from the feeder.

The audience was over.

"She will carry you, my lady," the equerry told me grudgingly. But his look was not quite as disdainful as it had been when I had entered the stable.

**ooo**

I thanked the royal equerry and slowly made my way up to the Hall of Meduseld again.

I was still weak and even walking up the soft slope from the stables to the Hall of Meduseld left me sweaty and winded.

The royal stables were situated at the foot of the hill that made up most of the city of Edoras and was crowned by the Golden Hall. There was a special gate in the north of the city's walls for the horses, called the Horse Gate. This Gate led out of Edoras next to the stables, so that the Mearas could in fact come and go as they pleased; or that was at least the legend that went with the Gate and the location of the stables. In these dark and dangerous times the horses were never left alone anywhere, least of all the precious Mearas.

I decided that I liked Edoras. And I enjoyed being out of my bed. I walked very slowly, looking around at the streets and the houses with keen interest.

The city reminded me of York.  
The roofs of the houses were thatched with great bundles of reed and grass. The houses were half-timbered, built from clay-bricks and dark beams of wood. The brickwork was covered with plaster in earthy colours, dun, a soft yellow, a drab green… The front beams of the roofs were carved in Celtic designs, most of the time just abstract ribbons of red and green, but sometimes horses and dragons were shown. And each house had carved the cross-beams at the gable of the roof into the head of a horse.

The main streets were cobbled with stones; the lanes between the houses were muddy paths.  
The river that had its spring just below the Great Golden Hall flowed down the hill in three carefully constructed stone channels. The city did not stink as I had expected a more or less medieval city to stink from open sewage and untended wastes of human and animal nature. Apparently the sewage system Théodred had constructed worked very well.

The city had three rings of fortifications. The outermost defense was a deep dike all around the city with draw bridges up to the city's gates. In the dike and on the raised ground behind it there was an abatis, a fence of thorns to make it more difficult to get at the city walls with siege engines. And then there were the city walls, made of huge beams of wood sharpened into pikes and a fortified wall made of stone set behind the pikes.  
Edoras had survived more than one attack during its long history.

Finally I reached the green lawns on the terrace below the Great Hall again. On a platform above the grassy terrace rose the Golden Hall of Meduseld, a huge building thatched with golden reed, the cross beams of the roof and the walls carved with the vaguely Celtic designs favoured by the Rohirrim. But where the common people had used red and green and blue, the hall of Meduseld was decked out in gold leaves, gleaming in the sunshine. The buildings of the royal palace formed a horseshoe around the back of the hall with a thatched corridor leading to the rear of the hall.

At the spring I halted. I was trembling with exhaustion.  
I slumped down on a bench of white marble that was set next to the basin of the spring. The sacred spring of Meduseld was a strong spring which rushed in a mighty burst of cold, white water out of a white stone that was carved into the likeness of a horse. From the horse stone the water fell into a basin made of white marble, and from that basin three narrow channels made of white stone ran down the hill and into the city, gradually broadening into small stone enclosed rivers.

It was a clear day, and looking down over the city and across the green plains of Rohan, I could see very far away. But not far enough. The Gap of Rohan and the Battle of Helm's Deep was too far away to be noticed from here. I could only wait, wait and hope that everything turned out alright as it had turned out in the stories.

I had to yawn suddenly. I realized that I had been up on my feet all day. I felt weary to my bones, and my ankle hurt horribly from walking so much. It was time to turn in for the day.  
Aragorn and the Grey Company could be here any day now. I had to recover as much of my strength as possible until they arrived.

Slowly I rose to my feet and made my way back to my room.


	28. Riding with the Dunedáin

**28. Riding with the Dúnedain  
**

"You won't fall down," Éowyn told me, her voice tinged with exasperation. "It's a shame to have to put a saddle on poor Mithril. – Don't clutch at the pommel like that! I told you, she likes you. She will never let you fall down!"

Éowyn stood at the centre of a dusty courtyard, looking very small from way up here on Mithril's back. Aragorn and the Dúnedain would be back any day now, perhaps even tonight.  
I had to know at least some basics about riding and horse-care by the time they arrived.  
I had been reassured by a thoroughly bad-tempered equerry and an irritated Éowyn, horse-woman by birth, that Mithril liked me and that I would be perfectly safe on her back.

I believed that Mithril liked me.  
I liked her, too.  
What I did not like was the fact that I was so very far away from the ground on her back.  
I sighed.  
Who could look at Mithril and not be instantly in love with her?

But the horse was so very, very big.  
Sitting on her back meant being so very far, far away from the ground.  
When I looked down at the ground and at Éowyn, suddenly so small and far away, I experienced a dizzying sense of vertigo.  
I forced myself to breathe slowly, easily.  
_Relax. Relax.** Relax!** _

"This is no good, my lady," the equerry told Éowyn in a gruff voice. "As long as she is that afraid of falling down she will never relax sufficiently to learn how to ride Mithril. And even Mithril has to be shown where to go and at what pace."  
"Do you really think so?" Éowyn asked.  
I did not really listen to this exchange. I was too busy clinging to the saddle and trying not to look down at the ground so very far below me.

Suddenly Éowyn shouted a command.

Mithril snorted.

Mithril reared.

I felt myself lose my grip on the saddle.  
I slid backwards.  
I flew through the air!

I hit the ground with a thump and a scream, landing with my bottom in the middle of the manure heap.  
I sat in the manure and blinked stupidly.  
I coughed a couple of times. The fall had knocked the breath out of my lungs, leaving me completely winded.

I was still alive.

When I could make sense of my surroundings again, I found that Mithril lowered her big white head to me and nuzzled me softly. Mithril seemed to be both sorry and embarrassed. When Éowyn approached, Mithril laid her ears flat and spat a copious amount of slobber at the woman, hitting her precisely at her cleavage. Instead of throwing a fit, Éowyn only sighed and proceeded to rub at the mess with a kerchief.  
Standing in front of me she extended a hand towards me.

Why was Mithril mad at Éowyn?  
What kind of command had Éowyn shouted before Mithril had reared?  
Had Éowyn _commanded_ Mithril to throw me off?

"Did you just tell my horse to throw me off?" I asked Éowyn, my voice dangerously soft.  
"I just told MY horse to throw you off," Éowyn said, her voice cool.  
"Why, for heaven's sake? I could be dead! Wouldn't that defeat the purpose of teaching me how to ride?" I asked, torn between confusion and anger.  
"Well, you were so very much afraid of falling off that you were much too tense to learn anything. Least of all how to ride, even a Meara." Éowyn told me. "Now you _have_ fallen off. So you don't have to be afraid of it anymore. Simple, isn't it?"  
What kind of warped logic was that?  
I stared at her extended hand, feeling mad like hell.

"Now, do you still want to learn how to ride?" Éowyn asked, grinning unrepentantly.

"Yes," I said finally. "I do. I have to."  
"Then take my hand and get back up on Mithril," Éowyn commanded.  
I took her hand and let her draw me back up on my feet.

Halfway on my feet I suddenly lunged with my right foot, curling it between her legs, then letting me fall backwards again, using the whole weight of my body.

Glorfindel would have been proud of me.

With a great thump and splash both of us landed in the manure heap.  
Completely covered with mud, dirt and horse manure, bits of straw sticking from her hair, Éowyn sat in front of me and gasped for air.  
She stared at me.  
I felt a slimy bit of mud dripping slowly down my face.  
I stared at her.  
Somehow she had managed to keep most of her face clean. But on her nose was a big brown spot of dirt, making her look like a clown.

Suddenly I lost my composure and simply collapsed with laughter.  
Éowyn kept staring at me for another moment.  
Then her lips started twitching.  
Her eyes crinkled.  
She started laughing, too.  
We laughed so hard that we cried, sitting in the middle of mud and manure, covered completely in mud and manure.

**ooo**

Before we could continue my riding lessons we had to go and wash up.  
On the one hand this incident had been a complete waste of time.  
On the other hand I guess Éowyn and I had become friends – somewhere between the mud, the horse and a shared bath. 

The world is a weird place.

An hour later I was back up on Mithril's back. And I cursed silently. Éowyn's warped logic had somehow been valid. I was not as afraid as I had been before. Though that might also be because I was not frightened of Éowyn anymore. It's hard to stay in breathless awe of a woman with whom you have rolled around in a manure heap.

"You hold on with your legs. Grip tightly. No, Mithril won't break. She's used to that. Now take up the reins. Yes, like I showed you, thread them between the fingers and up, so you don't let them slip accidentally. Now, basically you give a tug to the right if you want to go right, and left if you want to go left. You draw the reins if you want a horse to stop. You get her to speed up by touching her sides with your heels until she is fast enough. Stop! Don't do anything yet! I am not finished! BUT Mithril is a Meara, not just any odd horse. She understands what you say to her. Hm?"

"I don't speak Rohirric," I reminded her.  
Éowyn raised her eyebrows at me. "I know that. But you did say that you speak Sindarin, didn't you? Well, I'm told that all creatures react well to Sindarin. And Mithril was even inclined to listen to you yesterday when you used plain Westron. So, please, don't drag her reins. That will only hurt her tender mouth. TELL HER, where you want to go! In simple terms, but tell her! Keep the reins up only for emergencies. And don't kick her. That's completely unnecessary with a Meara. You simply tell her the speed you want. She is trained to recognize the words. Now. The paces of a horse are: 'walk', 'trot', 'canter' and 'gallop'. Remember, just TELL her. Now try and walk her around the courtyard. In a circle."  
Éowyn looked at me as you would look at a slightly dumb five-year-old.

I sighed. Yesterday it had seemed entirely natural to me to talk to Mithril. Now, under Éowyn's censorious glare, I felt silly.  
I reached forward and softly touched Mithril's warm neck. The mare snorted encouragingly, encouragingly. I decided to try Sindarin. After all, Gandalf had also implied that Sindarin would work well. And he should know, as the one who had tamed Shadowfax.  
"Alright, Mithril, Show me just how smart you are," I whispered to the horse. Mithril flicked her ears and slightly shook her head.  
"_Idhel, nedh-rind. _ Walk, in a circle. _Idhel, nedh-rind. _"

Mithril moved.

With slow, easy steps she walked in a perfect circle around Éowyn. Éowyn looked as if she did not know whether to be angry because her favourite horse listened to a stranger who knew nothing about horses or whether to be relieved, because after all I _had _to be able to ride if I was to bear Gandalf's message to Prince Imrahil.

"Very good, Lothíriel. You are very patient, Mithril," Éowyn called out to us. "Now, tell her to trot. Your centre of gravity is still far too high. You have to sink it towards the back of the horse, into you belly, deep down. You should become part of the horse, sharing one centre of gravity. The trot will bounce you about, but don't worry… she won't let you fall."  
"If you don't tell her to, you want to say…" I called back. Centre of gravity. Where is my centre of gravity? O.K., I think of my lower belly. Concentrate. Lower belly. Sit straight. Right. Trot. In Sindarin. I sighed, "_Padol_, Mithril. _Padol, nedh-rind. Padol!_"

Obligingly Mithril increased her speed.  
I bounced.

But I did not bounce as badly as I had expected.  
Éowyn kept me bouncing for quite some time, shouting commands about my centre of gravity and sitting up straight – no round shoulders, Lothíriel!  
Even though Éowyn was not the most patient teacher, she was a born horse-woman as a member of the royal family of Rohan. She knew everything about horses.  
She took me through all paces and back during a long, long afternoon. In the end, when the sun was already setting in a beautiful red sunset, she ordered me to jump across a beam of wood.

For a moment I simply stared at her, my heart beating frantically.  
Jump! Me! On a horse!

Then I moistened my lips and told Mithril to walk back to the other end of the courtyard.  
"_Cabo_, Mithril! _Cabo thar-thelch! _Jump across the beam!"  
Mithril trotted obediently towards the beam and jumped across it easily.  
I held my balance, although I bounced hard when she landed again.  
She snorted at my clumsiness. I patted her softly. "I'm sorry, Mithril. But I'm doing my best!"  
Mithril gave a low neigh as if she agreed and wanted to comfort me.  
"That's it for today," Éowyn said, taking Mithril's reins from me. "Now dismount and I will show you how to care for your horse after a long ride."

I should be proud.  
I was able to dismount by myself.  
O.K., when I was on the ground my knees buckled and Éowyn had to support me to the bench in front of the stable. But I _did_ dismount by myself.

I was completely exhausted by the time I had learned how to clean Mithril's hooves and how to brush her soft, gleaming coat. When I finally left the stable, stumbling with weariness, I had the feeling that Mithril was watching me with pity in her beautiful dark eyes.  
That horse was smarter and kinder than most human beings I had ever met.

**ooo**

Éowyn took me straight to the baths. Apparently she had ordered to have another round of baths readied for us. We showered, we used the sauna and we soaked, long and blissfully in hot water with lots of fragrant foam.  
When we were ready to leave, Éowyn smiled at me, "Do you know that I cannot remember the last time I had so much fun?"  
I smiled right back at her. "Me neither. Perhaps we can do it again some time." 

I did not think so the next morning. I was stiff and sore and I thought that I would never be able to spread my legs again. But Éowyn had apparently decided to make as much a horse-woman of me as possible in the short time we had.

After breakfast I was back in the saddle.

This time Éowyn was mounted, too, on a beautiful silver-grey Meara with a regal bearing. "This is Brego," Éowyn told me. "He was the horse of my cousin, Théodred. Aragorn said that he should not be given to a warrior again, so I have taken him as my own horse, for as long as we are here, in peace."  
She looked towards the west, in the direction of the Gap of Rohan. But today, just like any other day, nothing could be seen of the battle against Isengard. And there had been no further message since Gandalf's letter.  
"We will keep to the plains to the north-east of the river. You have to get comfortable with Mithril's paces in the country side and do some more easy jumps. We have to work on your balance and your confidence," Éowyn explained.  
I nodded meekly.

My legs felt like jelly. But by now I trusted Mithril. I knew the horse would not let me fall.  
The Horse Gates were opened for us. We left Edoras on a narrow, muddy lane that soon disappeared in the grassy plains.  
"Now, let's gallop! Nothing like a little bit of freedom to start the day!" Éowyn called to me. Then she was off, streaking across the plains like a silver and golden shadow, slim and strong and beautiful. The guards followed her at a slower pace on their great dark destriers.  
I patted Mithril's neck. "What about us, Mithril? Do you feel up to chase Brego?"  
Mithril snorted impatiently and pawed at the earth. "_Celeg, celeg, _ Mithril!" I called. "Fast, fast!"

Mithril sped away as swiftly as the wind on the grass.

Suddenly I realized that I was shouting for joy. The speed made my eyes tear up and my legs hurt like hell, but I felt exhilarated beyond almost anything I had ever experienced.

I was free as a bird, wild and free and strong!

**ooo**

In the evening I soaked my weary muscles in a tub with hot water and some herbs again to help with the soreness of my body. Éowyn had only showered quickly. Shower: not a real shower, but stepping under a construction that involves a string and something very like a bucket filled with cold water – if you pull the string, the stopper lifts and cold water is all over you. That's a shower in Rohan. Cold, quick and cruel.  
But Éowyn told me that she had neglected her duties to teach me the rudiments of riding and horse-care and there were a number of decisions that could not be put off any longer. 

When I returned to my room, I noticed that my old clothes had been returned to me, washed and mended. My backpack had been cleaned, too. Food, some maps and other gear necessary for travelling had been neatly stacked on the small table in the corner.  
I looked at the worn and faded clothing, the backpack and the gear.

I sighed.

The holiday was over. I might as well do the packing right away. Aragorn would be here tomorrow at the latest if I was not very much mistaken. Or perhaps even tonight. I frowned, trying in vain to remember when Aragorn and the Grey Company had returned to Edoras.  
I dressed again in my Rohirric clothes and carefully stowed my old clothes along with the food and the maps and the rope and stuff in my backpack. I had even some lembas left.

Would Mithril like lembas?  
I was packed and ready to go within half an hour.  
I had to admit that I was getting jittery.  
_Aragorn, where the hell are you? _

**ooo**

They came to Edoras on the next day, the sixth of March, early in the afternoon. 

I was in my room, putting salve on my wrists and ankles and bandaging the wounds again, when Alina – the maid-servant – came for me. "They are here, my lady. The lady Éowyn bids you to come to the terrace. Food and drink is being prepared for the company. They want to leave first thing in the morning. If you will allow me to take your gear, I shall take it to the stables so that Mithril will be ready for you come dawn tomorrow."

I nodded at Alina and went to retrieve my backpack from the chest.

My heart started pounding like a drum, my breath lodging at the top of my lungs with excitement. _The Grey Company! _And I would ride with them!

I hurried to the terrace.  
Éowyn was offering Aragorn a drink of welcome in a golden goblet. Her hands were shaking as she offered him the goblet, and her eyes were full of pain and longing. I felt sorry for her.  
Aragorn's gaze was full of veiled pain, too. I realized that he did in fact like Éowyn. Had his heart not been given already, he might perhaps even have returned her feelings.

Behind Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas waited. Gimli was obviously impatient with the ceremony. When he saw me, he hurried towards me at once. Suddenly I felt myself drawn down into a hairy, hearty embrace.  
"_Caramba_, it's good to see you, Lothy! And up and about, too." Gimli let me go and smiled at me happily.  
"_Caramba_ indeed," I returned our joke. "And I have to admit it is good to see you, too. Up and about…"  
Then I found myself in an elvish embrace and my heart sped up, my stomach giving a weird flip. There just is something about elves that touches you somewhere deep inside, an enchantment you just cannot escape…  
"To see you well, and unbroken…" Legolas whispered, his voice deep with emotion.  
I blushed hotly, feeling shivery all over.  
"The same, Legolas. The same! After all you went to war, whereas I just lazed about here in comfort and safety," I said, myself relieved to see my friends well and unharmed.

Then a servant came up to us.  
"My lord, my lady," he said politely, bowing deeply. "A table with refreshments has been readied for you. If you will follow me?"  
A long table had been prepared on the lawn of the terrace below Meduseld. Thirty-one grim faced human warriors were already seated and eating and drinking. They did not talk much, and only in low voices. It was obvious that they wanted to be on their way. Éowyn was at the head of the table, next to her sat Aragorn. At Aragorn's side a place was left empty for me and two seats on the other side of the table waited for Gimli and Legolas. But at the far end of the table were two elvish warriors whom I recognized at once.

They were Elrohir and Elladan, Elrond's sons. I had seen them once or twice in Rivendell. But then they had been dressed like rangers, in drab colours, to blend in with wood and wilderness. Now they were about to ride to war. They were dressed as the elvish warriors of old as I had seen them in the paintings in the Hall of Kings at Rivendell. Splendid they were, tall and fierce, beautiful and deadly at the same time. Their armour shone like mithril and their eyes blazed with the same starry light. Their long dark hair was braided at the back of their necks, revealing their clear elvish faces in all their immortal beauty.

I bowed to them and then sat down next to Aragorn.

He turned to me and gave me a weary smile. Aragorn looked older than the last time we met, weary and grim. The days of the battle at Helm's Deep had obviously not been easy.  
"My lord Aragorn," I said softly. There was an air of command to the ranger that had not been there at Amon Hen. "I have to thank you for my life."  
He inclined his head. "I am only happy that I could save you, Lothíriel."  
"Did Gandalf tell you that I am to ride with you?" I asked, hoping that the wizard had done as he promised.  
"Yes, he did," Aragorn replied. "Although I am not happy about it, I have to admit that it will be safer for you at Tarnost or Dol Amroth than even here in Rohan. And in a way I am responsible for you. Have you been given a horse?"

It was Éowyn who answered. "Indeed she has. Mithril is her steed, daughter of Shadowfax, lord of all horses."  
Aragorn looked back at me and there was impressed amazement in his eyes. I narrowed my eyes at Éowyn, thinking: _don't you remember what I told you? _  
Aloud I said, "It is a great honour. And Mithril only throws me off her back if told to do so by the Lady Éowyn, so I should be quite safe as soon as we leave Edoras."  
Aragorn gave a confused look, Éowyn frowned at me.  
I sighed and shook my head. _No more meddling, Lothíriel. It won't help anyway. _

I turned my attention away from Aragorn and Éowyn and was soon deep in talk with Gimli and Legolas. They had much to tell me: of the hobbits' rescue, ents, huorns and the host of elvish archers from Lórien that had arrived just in time to help defend Helm's Deep.  
The last bit of news left me utterly confounded. That had _not_ been in the books. That had only been in the movies!  
I was absolutely certain that this had not happened in the stories.  
I sat and stared at Legolas, gaping. But luckily both Legolas and Gimli expected me to be suitably amazed by this tale.

"Ai," Legolas said and there was a dreamy expression on his face. "It was a great moment, to hear Haldir announce the renewal of our alliance of old. If not all our friendships of old have been forgotten, there may yet be hope for the free peoples of Middle-earth."  
"Indeed," Gimli agreed. "As long as not all our strength and courage fails, there is still hope."  
"Yes," I said. "There is still hope."  
I looked around the table, at the grim faces of the Dúnedain, at the unmarred clarity of the three elvish faces, at the pale face of Éowyn with her eyes like grey stars and at the reckless grin of the dwarf.  
There was still hope.  
Hope and determination. Thirty-eight hearts not yet defeated. Thirty-eight men, women, elves and dwarf, determined to go on.

_To strive, to seek, to fight and not to yield…_

Just the way Tennyson put it in that poem about Ulysses.

As long as Frodo and Sam are still somewhere out there, leagues and leagues away, slowly, laboriously making their way towards that evil mountain, there is still hope, I thought.  
_There is still hope…_  
But I did not dare to speak their names out loud. I only folded my hands under the table and tried to remember a prayer to bless their steps on their way into the darkness.


	29. To Dunharrow

**29. To Dunharrow**

I was woken way before dawn. I washed and dressed quickly. The maid-servant who had taken care of me during the last days brought me a tray with breakfast, porridge and hot golden tea. She also gave me a small bag of apples for the journey and a jar with _athelas_ salve. When I asked her what the salve was for, she blushed, "The lady Éowyn sends the salve. She says it's for horse-sore… bums."  
The girl blushed even harder.  
I raised my eyebrows, kept silent and pocketed the jar.

It was so early in the morning that the palace of Meduseld and the city of Edoras were still eerily quiet. When I left the hall, dawn barely touched the eastern sky. The coming of the day was only noticeable in the way that the sky was not as dark as it had been, and that the stars were paler. Above the Snowbourne great swirls of mist drifted lazily. The mountains to the south loomed in dark sinister shadows. Only the bakeries were already busy with tell-tale columns of white and grey wood smoke rising from their chimneys and from somewhere down below I heard the rumbling noise of cart-wheels on cobbled stones. Probably a wagon on the way to the market place with fresh milk from the farms close to the city.

A stable boy had Mithril ready for me. The mare was restless in the company of the other, more ordinary horses. I walked up to her and the horse recognized me at once. A warm feeling of pride suffused me. I took her reins and whispered to her an explanation about the other horses in Sindarin. As if she had understood every word, the mare snorted softly and calmed down.

The horses of the rangers were smaller than Mithril; most of them were brown or dun, tough and sturdy, bred to manage almost any ground. Legolas had a Rohirric horse, though not a Meara. Aragorn was on Roheryn, his own horse, brought all the way from the stables of Rivendell by Elladan and Elrohir. But Elrond's sons were mounted on two great destriers, huge grey stallions trained for war; the last of their kind to be bred and trained in Imladris. Mithril was smaller than those two and more delicate in build, but she was the most beautiful horse of the group and without doubt the most intelligent and remarkable steed. She was a true Meara, a queen of horses, a true daughter to Shadowfax.

And I got to ride her because I was too inexperienced to get where I was to go as far as I needed to go on an ordinary horse.

No wonder that Éowyn was somewhat riled about this.

**ooo**

Just before I wanted to mount a slender figure dressed in the palest blue emerged from the shadows. It was Éowyn. She had covered her golden hair with an almost sheer silver blue shawl. She looked very beautiful, like a water-sprite, slender and pale and cool. And lonely. She looked very, very lonely and her eyes were dark with pain. 

"I just wanted to say good-bye, Lothíriel. Fare thee well, and may the blessing of the One guard your ways." She embraced me swiftly and then she was gone before I could reply anything.

How many times had Éowyn said good-bye and never seen the ones again she had embraced and blessed that way?

I patted Mithril's neck and then asked her if I was allowed to mount her. She snorted again, producing a sound that was remarkably close to a chuckle. I was very proud of myself when I mounted with no difficulty. My ankle hurt as it was pressed into the stirrup, but I did not loose my balance and ended up hopping around on one leg to the amusement of all onlookers.  
On Mithril's back I experienced the now almost familiar sense of vertigo, being so far above the ground but only for a short moment. Then I almost felt my centre of gravity drop low into my stomach and was suddenly much more comfortable on Mithril. But nevertheless I stroked the soft coat of her neck and asked her in my best Sindarin not to let me fall even if I was being very clumsy.

When I heard the sound of soft laughter behind me, I actually managed to turn in the saddle and look who laughed at me. It was one of the twins. I_ think_ it was Elrohir. There was a softer touch to the younger twin's eyes. The elf nudged his destrier forward. The horse stepped next to me and exchanged polite breaths with Mithril.  
"A beautiful horse, my lady. And a beautiful accent – Glorfindel will be proud of you."  
_Glorfindel! _ I felt a smile grow on my face.  
"Only Lothíriel, please," I replied. "And thank you! Mithril is a completely unearned reward for my incompetence as a rider. But the message I carry is important and needs a swift and sure delivery. Please, tell me, how is Glorfindel, and his niece, Gily, and the Lady Arwen and the Lord Elrond and…"  
Elrohir raised his hand and smiled at me. "Stop, stop, not so fast, my – Lothíriel. Glorfindel sends his regards, as does his niece. They are both well as are our sister and our father. As well as possible in these times of darkness and war."  
"That's good," I said, thinking back to the bright days at Rivendell when I had first felt at home in this world and happy with it. "Maybe it will all be over soon, and the light will return to Middle-earth."  
"That is our hope," Elrohir answered. "But look, there comes Aragorn and the Lady Éowyn. We will be on our way now."

Éowyn had changed into the clothes of a warrior-rider of the Rohirrim and her sword was sheathed at her side. In her hands she held the traditional goblet of farewell, a simple golden goblet filled with wine and blessings. A stirrup-cup.

Aragorn took the goblet from her, drank and gently returned it to her hands. Her hands were shaking and I had the feeling that she wanted to plead with him to stay and not choose the dark path under the Dwimorberg. But she did not plead. And she did not cry.

At least not there and then.

We raised our hands in a gesture of farewell and then turned the horses away from the palace of Meduseld. Aragorn and Halbarad took the lead of the company. After them followed the Dúnedain. At the end of the company Legolas rode next to Elladan with Gimli behind him and Elrohir rode at my side.

The streets of Edoras were grey and empty, most of the houses still dark. From the bakeries and some guesthouses the muffled noise of various preparations for the day issued. The only other sound was the hooves of the horses on the cobbled stone of the pavement. Soon the terrace where Éowyn bade us good-bye was obscured by the roofs of the houses. A few minutes later we reached the great gates of the city. They were opened for us at once, but no one called out a blessing or a farewell to us. Instead the gates were closed behind us at once.

**ooo**

We rode around the south-eastern edge of Edoras and then turned on a muddy road towards the mountains. It was still gloomy because the morning sun was not yet high enough in the sky to shine beyond the dark peak of the Haunted Mountain. 

After a short ride we came to a crossroads. A path branched off the road and led away into the mountains. Along its sides tall slabs of granite were placed, creating an alley of standing stones leading up into the mountains. This was our way.

The atmosphere of the path was dismal and disturbing. In the dim grey light of the morning the standing stones seemed to watch our steps like guards – silent and grim. The horses snorted and flicked their tails restlessly. The men were quiet; only now and then they talked among themselves in low voices.

The alley of standing stones ended in a dark wood of black fir trees. Firs have never been my favourite kind of trees. And these were so dark they seemed to swallow the light of the morning sun that was finally high enough in the sky to peek even into this shadowy valley.  
Not even Legolas seemed to like this forest, barely sparing a glance to look at the trees, concentrating solely on guiding his horse through their oppressive shadows.

The forest opened on a small grassy dell. The path led right across the hollow into the shadows of the mountain. At the centre of the hollow, right in the middle of the path, there was a single standing stone, like a memorial. A memorial of doom.

The horses snorted uneasily as we approached the stone. They shifted on their hooves trying to retrace their steps and get away from the stone and its gloomy shadow. Only Mithril and the twin's horses kept their calm. The others finally had to dismount and lead their horses around the stone.

Behind the stone the path led into a narrow glen, more a ravine really than a glen that ended after only a few hundred yards in front of a sheer face of black rock into which a square opening had been hewn.

The Black Door of the Dwimorberg.

We halted and dismounted.

My knees were wobbly. Not from weakness or from riding, but from a sudden, bone-chilling, reasonless fear. I kept close to the twins and Legolas, one hand entangled in Mithril's mane, taking comfort in the closeness of her strength.

"This is it," Aragorn said. "The paths of the dead. Here we must enter."  
Halbarad shuddered, "This is an evil door. And death awaits us behind it. We may enter nevertheless, but I fear the horses will not go."  
"But they have to," Aragorn said. "When we emerge on the other side of the mountains we are in need of haste, and many leagues lie between the Stone of Erech and the battle plains near the Black Land."

In the end the elves moved from horse to horse, talking to them in their elvish language, calming them and blessing them as only the firstborn can. Then Aragorn and Halbarad entered the darkness, leading their horses behind them. The other Dúnedain followed, their horses – while reluctant – following calmly. Legolas, the twins and I brought up the rear again. My heart was beating quickly and my stomach felt cramped when I walked into the darkness, but the elves seemed pretty much unfazed and Mithril nuzzled me, apparently wanting to cheer me up.

We were already a few feet into the tunnel when Gimli came running after us. The dwarf was very pale. For once even he felt threatened by the darkness and the closeness of the mountain pressing in on us.

Aragorn carried a torch at the front and Elladan had lit another torch to light the rear. It was not a lot of light. Somehow it was darker than Moria had been. Where in Moria there had always been a strange kind of diffusive reddish glow all around us, here there was only cold blackness that not even dwarvish eyes could penetrate.  
I walked next to Elrohir, my heart almost painful with fear, even though I knew – or at least _thought _I knew – that everything would be alright and that no ghost of the dead would harm us. When I stumbled for the third time, gasping with fright, Elrohir gripped my hand and from then on supported me through the darkness. At once the blackness did not seem quite as black as before and my fear of the ghosts dwelling here diminished.

Suddenly Aragorn halted and shone his torch to the side of the wide tunnel. In the light of his torch I could see the gleaming gold and silver of metal. When we got closer, I saw that it was a skeleton still clad in rich armour, though the helm had tumbled from the skull. The dead warrior lay in front of a door made of stone. The door was shut, but the bony fingers of the skeleton were still clawed into the cracks of the door.

I drew back with a muffled scream.  
Aragorn said something in a low voice to Halbarad and then turned away from the skeleton.  
I shuddered.

Who had that warrior been?  
Why had he come to this dark place?  
Why had he not turned back when he could not open the door?

An icy shiver ran down my spine when Elrohir and I walked past the skeleton. Perhaps I did not really want to know the answers to my questions.

I was glad of the comforting touch of the elf's hand and of the hot breath of Mithril at my neck. Just imagining to be caught in this place all alone, in a darkness so complete that without torches you would literally see not the hand before your eyes…

As we walked on, the darkness behind us seemed to fill with whispering voices and invisible movement. My heart started to race again and though I wanted desperately to turn and see who pursued us, I did not dare, and somewhere deep inside I knew that if I did turn to look back, blackness would cloud my eyes never to lift again. So I kept staring ahead, trying to concentrate on Elrohir's calm touch and the soft snuffling breath of my horse behind me.

Suddenly Aragorn stopped again. I almost jumped out of my skin when he called out into the surrounding darkness in a clear and commanding voice, "Keep your hoards and your secrets hidden in the Accursed Years! For we want them not! Your oath I ask! Speed I ask! Let us pass and then come! I summon you to the Stone of Erech!"

All at once the whispering and the moving behind us and around us stopped.

Silence fell.

Icy gusts swept up from the depths of darkness around us. The torches flickered and died. The horses neighed loudly with fear and even Mithril tossed her head and snorted nervously.

"Keep calm, Lothíriel," Elrohir's voice came out of the darkness next to me. "It is not far to the other side from here. The summons has been spoken. They will not harm us now."

The torches could not be lit again and the torches that had been kept in reserve would not catch fire.

After a few moments of failing attempts to kindle a flame, Elladan called to Aragorn from the back. "Just keep going, Estel. It is not far to the other side and this darkness is vile."

"Then let's go at once," Aragorn replied. "Keep close together and walk as quickly as possible."

It was like stumbling through the darkness of a madhouse at a fun-fair. The blackness was impenetrable around us; not even elvish eyes could see through this absolute, eternal gloom.  
So we hurried along, holding on to hands and reins as best we could and ran from the darkness as fast as our feet could carry us.

Then, just as suddenly as the darkness had come, it was gone.

We emerged through another gateway into the grey twilight of a deep mountain gorge.

At the side of the path a small rill ran down from the mountains and far above us I could see a wedge of dark blue sky. I gasped with relief and when I finally relinquished Elrohir's hand, my fingers were stiff and painful from holding on so tightly.

It was already late in the evening, but all of us wanted to get away from the Haunted Mountain as fast as possible, so we mounted again and rode on down the steeply sloping road. Elrohir rode before me, but behind me followed Legolas and after him Elladan. The small hairs at the back of my neck prickled uncomfortably as if someone else followed us and watched me with cold, cold eyes. But when I turned around, I could only see the black gate yawning bleakly in the face of the mountain.

Legolas caught my look and turned back for a moment himself.

"The dead are following," he called out in a soft voice. "I see shapes of Men and horses, and pale banners like shreds of cloud and spears, many spears, like winter-thickets on a misty night. The Dead are following."

"Yes," That was the cool voice of Elladan. "The Dead ride behind. They have been summoned."

_The Dead ride behind…_ I shivered.

I did not look back again.

**ooo**

Finally we emerged from the ravine. We were on a plateau above wide, sloping highlands. The rivulet that accompanied us down from the mountain was joined here by two other small mountain rills. Turning into a cold mountain river the stream rushed down the hills, splashing down and down over many rocky falls. 

I exhaled a deep sigh of relief. I was glad to be out of the confining walls of the ravine. For my part I had enough of mountains for some time to come. And of dark caves.

"Where in all the long-beard's names are we?" Gimli asked, looking around in consternation.  
In Gondor, I thought. We are in Gondor. South of the White Mountains, the Ered Nimrais. But it was Elladan who answered Gimli's question, "We have descended from the uprising of the river Morthond, it flows into the Bay of Belfalas. In the Common Tongue the river's name is Blackroot, and now you know the reason why it has been given that name."  
Gimli shuddered. "A knowledge I could have done without."  
I silently agreed with him.

But before we could talk anymore, Aragorn called out to us, "Friends, forget your weariness for a while yet! Ride now, ride! We must reach the Stone of Erech before this day is over and it is still a long way to go!"

He spurred his horse into a gallop and neighing a challenge his mount leapt and sped away into the twilight.

I sighed. I was heartily tired. But I bent forwards and stroked Mithril's neck softly. _"Celeg, celeg, meleth-nîn," _ I whispered to my horse. "Fast, fast, my love!"

And Mithril, a true Meara, with a strength superior even to the great destriers of Elrond's sons, raced into the dusk, following Aragorn in close pursuit.

The landscape flew by in a blur of rich fields and grassy meadows, now and again the lights of farms of small villages blinked in the distance. But there was no one abroad. Later I learned that the inhabitants of the houses and villages we passed during that evening had felt the coldness of the Dead following behind us. Filled with fear and dread they closed their doors and barricaded their windows. And for many years afterwards the Night of the Hunting Dead was remembered in Gondor with candles placed in windows and blessings said over doors and windows to ward off that wild hunt.

But soon we left the softer farmlands behind us. The lands around the Stone of Erech are desolate and empty. The legends of the damned dead of the mountains and their meeting place at the stone cast a shadow across the hills and on this place. No one wanted to live there, either then or in the later ages of the world.

The Stone of Erech is a perfect globe of black obsidian – or a similar jewel. It is blacker than the night but luminous as glass. The globe, although it was half-way buried in the ground of the hill's summit, was still higher than Aragorn – who is one of the tallest men I know.

We rode up to the stone and dismounted.

I looked at the stone and felt again that ominous prickling at the back of my neck. I held on the reins of Mithril with a tight grip. This was a strange place. Perhaps not as terrible as the way through the Haunted Mountain, but still strange and uncanny. There seemed to be an aura of power in the air around the stone, and although its surface was clear as glass, it did not reflect the surrounding hills, or the close shadows of the mountains, or the silver pinpricks of the stars in the sky above it. It was completely black.

Elrohir gave the reins of his horse to his brother and walked up to Aragorn. From below his grey cloak he produced a small silver horn. He bowed to Aragorn and offered him the horn.  
Aragorn inclined his head in a grave, gracious gesture of thank you.

He lifted the horn to his lips and blew.

A bright clarion of a sound emerged.

And all around us and indeed from far below the ground echoes of horn calls sprang up.

Then silence fell again.

But Aragorn went to stand close to the Stone of Erech and he called out in a voice that was clear and dark and carried far through the hills all around.

"Oathbreakers, why have ye come?"

Out of the darkness a voice replied to him, and it was a low voice, a clipped voice, that sounded dire and dead, "To fulfil our oath and have peace!"

Aragorn stood very tall and his eyes blazed silver as the stars above him. For the first time I realized that he was truly related to Elrond and his sons. The beauty of the elves and the majesty of the kings of men were indeed mingled in him. All at once a feeling of awe swept through me, awe that I had been allowed to meet this man, this King of Kings.

Aragorn replied to the dead voice and he used the words that Tolkien had given in the book,  
"The hour is come at last.  
Now I go to Pelargir upon Anduin, and ye shall come after me.  
And when all this land is clean of the servants of Sauron, I will hold the oath fulfilled, and ye shall have peace and depart for ever.  
For I am Elessar, Isildur's heir of Gondor."

At that Halbarad unfurled the great standard they had brought with them, but the banner remained black and any device on it was hidden in the darkness.

Not yet, I thought as a cold shiver ran down my back, not yet. But soon…

And then a feeling of excitement swept through me and made my stomach lurch.

**ooo**

The summoning fulfilled at last, we made camp for the night. Elrohir helped me unsaddling Mithril and taking care of her hooves. When I finally crawled into my sleeping bag, I was too tired to feel afraid of the waiting ghosts all around us. 

I slept like a log. And probably snored.


	30. Haste

**30. Haste**

Again I was woken way before dawn by the means of rough shaking. I opened my eyes and sneezed. Elrohir was looming in the mist somewhere above me. "Aragorn sends me. He says he wants to speak to you before we set out again."  
"Yes. Right. I'll be there in a minute."  
I wanted nothing so much than slump back down, curl up in a ball and wait at least until the coffee was ready. Wait. Middle-earth. No coffee. Well, if there was coffee, it was probably in the Shire. Couldn't get much farther away from the Shire than the south-western provinces of Gondor.  
Well, apart from Mordor, of course.  
I would be just fine without coffee.  
I peeled myself out of my sleeping bag and dressed quickly.

It was cold and there was even some hoarfrost in the grass. The hills and valleys around the Stone of Erech were filled with dense white fog. The mountains were barely discernible shadows behind us. There was no water to really wash with. I poured a small amount of water into my cupped hands and tried to clean my face that way. I cannot say if I was any cleaner afterwards, but at least I was awake.

I shuddered with the cold, pulling my cloak closer around me. This close to the mountains the notion of March meaning spring had not yet taken hold. The only thing to show that it was not winter anymore was the grass that had already acquired a reasonably fresh green hue.

I did brush my teeth – without toothpaste, but I figured it was better than doing nothing at all to keep them clean – and gargled with another mouthful of water, startling the men who were busy eating their breakfast around me.

Breakfast was pure bliss. They had made a small fire and cooked a small pot of porridge. This porridge had been made with water and tasted like mud, but it was filling and even better, it was hot. There was even some very strong tea to go with it.

I balanced my porridge bowl and my mug of tea in my hands as I made my way to the boulder where Aragorn was sitting. He had drawn up the hood of his cloak and was smoking his pipe. I sat down next to him.  
"Good morning," I said. "How can you smoke that early in the day? Don't you get a belly ache that way?"  
Aragorn turned to me and actually smiled, "I cooked the porridge and had some of that before I went looking for some peace and quiet with my pipe. But thank you for your concern."  
I started into the porridge. After a few spoonfuls I looked over at Aragorn.  
"You cooked this porridge?"  
The ranger and future king of Gondor nodded.  
I swallowed the next spoon with the hot watery mess.  
"You know, your venison stew is much better than this," I offered.  
"Éowyn has pampered you," Aragorn commented with raised eyebrows. But when he said the Lady's name, his eyes were dark. "On our way to Moria you would have cried for joy to have such a nice bowl of porridge."

Then Aragorn decided that we had wasted enough time with small talk and quipping.  
"I wanted to talk with you about your task. You could ride with us for another two days and depart from us at the bridge of Ethring, turning due south to Tarnost. But I don't think that is wise. Time is running out and Mithril is the fastest horse of the Grey Company. I think you should leave us now and make haste. Ride as swiftly as you possibly can. With Mithril you could reach Tarnost even around midnight tonight or tomorrow morning. The road should be safe and in good condition. Prince Imrahil takes good care of his lands. He will be waiting for the war. But he _will_ need a day or two to get his troops ready. And he has to be at Minas Tirith before the fifteenth."

My heart was beating faster. "Why before the fifteenth?"  
Aragorn looked at me for a moment, his eyes piercingly sharp. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped into a low whisper, "Frodo will be in the Black Land by then. If the enemy is not yet ready to strike, we have to devise a distraction, to give him a chance to cross the plains towards Mount Doom."  
I stared at Aragorn, my stomach lurching sickly.  
Aragorn gave me a grim smile. "But I don't think we will have to come up with any battle strategies. The enemy will do that for us. I am certain that he will strike soon. He will attack Minas Tirith in force. And I have the feeling that this attack will come rather sooner than later. Around the middle of the month. Gondor will need every armed man it can get."

I shuddered. My heart was in my mouth when I asked in a very small voice, "And woman?"  
Aragorn laughed at that. It was a friendly, soothing laugh, in a low, dark voice. He reached out for me and gave me a quick, one armed hug.  
"No, Lothíriel. You have done enough fighting in this war. Remember what you promised to Gandalf! Take your message safely to Prince Imrahil. See to it that he is in Minas Tirith as soon as may be. Then stay in Tarnost or if Prince Imrahil has another idea where you might go and spend the dark weeks that lie ahead in safety, go there."  
He gripped my hands and turned my wrists around. In the grey light of morning I could see that the strain of riding had cracked open the wounds again here and there. There were small brown spots of dry blood on the dirty white of the bandages. Aragorn laid his hand on my hands. His hand was warm and strong.  
"No. You have done enough fighting and paid enough blood already."

There was nothing I could say to that. My body certainly felt like that. And I was not the trained shield-maiden Éowyn was. Then Aragorn reached into his cloak and produced a roll of parchment sealed with the familiar elvish rune of 'G'.  
"This is the message for Prince Imrahil. Give it only to him, in person, to no one else."  
"I will, you can be sure of that. And the message will be in Tarnost today," I promised, squeezing Aragorn's hand gratefully in return.

"Take care, Aragorn."  
I paused, in doubt if it was appropriate to say to him what I was thinking. But then I decided to say it anyway.  
"Arwen needs you." I smiled at him. "Hell, the world needs you."  
Suddenly I remembered about the correct title. "Your majesty?"

Aragorn raised his eyebrows at me. But he did not deny it. And the way he looked, with his dark, wavy hair slightly tangled by the morning breeze coming down from the mountains, his grey eyes silvery bright, his face weathered and chiseled – he did look like a king, tattered and dirty ranger clothes notwithstanding.  
"Take care yourself, Lothíriel."

Elrohir appeared suddenly in front of us. I had not seen or heard the elf approaching. But Aragorn did not look surprised. I sighed softly. Even after weeks of travelling I was not up to a fraction of a ranger's faculties of sight and hearing.

"I have readied Mithril. She is eager to leave."  
"So am I, I guess," I replied. Or I better had be, I thought.

We did not say good-bye or even farewell this time. The weeks ahead were too dark. Take care. There was really nothing else you could say.

**ooo**

Elrohir led me down to the street. Mithril was on the road. She was saddled and my backpack was fastened securely to the back of the saddle. The stirrups were shortened. I took a look at the stirrups and realized that I would probably need help getting up on her back.

"I have shortened the stirrups to aid your speed. Duck as low as you can to her neck, so that the air will pass over you easily. Mithril will fly for you today," Elrohir said.  
Duck against her neck… I blinked. Of course. That was what I had seen jockeys do at some horse races I had watched on TV in another life, long ago.

"I will try," I said. Then I looked from my horse to Elrohir. "But you will have to help me get up there. With stirrups close to my head, I don't think I will manage that on my own."  
Elrohir only asked, "Ready?"  
When I nodded, he swung me up and into the saddle as if I weighed no more than a feather. I put my feet in the stirrups and found myself crouching low over Mithril's back. Securing the reins before me, I bent forward to embrace Mithril.

"_Sí cell, _ Mithril, _sí cell! _Now you have to run, Mithril, now you have to run! _Erín-othrad nan Ethring ah ab-nan Darnost! _On the road to Ethring and then to Tarnost! _Ú-vetho em-epin! _Don't stop until we are there!"

Mithril snorted softly, eagerly. I felt her powerful muscles ripple under my legs. A heady feeling of exhilaration swept through me. I had to ride as swiftly as the wind.  
And I would!

I sat back up and took the reins into my hands the way Éowyn had shown me. I turned to Elrohir and saw that Gimli and Legolas stood next to the younger twin. Elladan was only a few feet behind his brother and Aragorn stood next to him.

"Take care, all of you!" I called out to them. They raised their right arm in a silent gesture of farewell.

As Elrohir had told me to, I crouched low over Mithril's back, tightening my legs around the horse's sides.

_"Ego!" _ I called out to Mithril.

**ooo**

Mithril leapt forth. In a moment she was in full gallop.

I had to narrow my eyes against the wind in my face, so fast did she run.  
She raced along the road like a silver flash of lightning. She was so fast that I had the feeling we were not touching the ground anymore, but that we were flying.  
Her gallop was smooth, too. I was barely jolted by her strides.

But the enormous speed of the Meara was strenuous for me as an inexperienced rider. I had to keep my body tense and balanced all the time, ducking against the wind, holding on with my legs, but keeping my hands that were holding the reins relaxed.

Soon we left the misty grey of dawn behind us and raced through a pale golden morning of spring. The road was indeed in a good condition. It was fairly dry, no pavement, but tough, bare earth. Perfect for a horse to run on.

I lost all feeling of time. Mithril only had to follow the road; the only time I had to watch out for the way was behind the bridge of Ethring, where we had to turn south to the fortress of Tarnost.

Even with the magical speed of the Meara, we would get there only late at night, possibly only tomorrow. In the afternoon I would have to slow down for a bit, I thought, to preserve Mithril's strength.

But I knew we had to hurry.  
I knew we had to reach the fortress tonight.

The war of the ring was about to unleash and the friends that I had here in Middle-earth would be in the thick of it.

I had to get the message to Prince Imrahil. He had to be at Minas Tirith on time.

Suddenly I remembered a part of the description of the Battle of Pelennor. It had been a sortie by Prince Imrahil that had saved Faramir's life. And Faramir would marry Éowyn.

The lives and the happiness of my friends depended on the swiftness of Mithril and me.

I would _not _disappoint them.

Noon passed into afternoon and still Mithril raced along without any sign of fatigue.  
Suddenly I noticed the silvery ribbon of a river ahead of us. That had to be the river Ciril.  
I told Mithril to slow down. For a time we trotted along and the bouncing feeling reverberated through my painfully tight muscles.

Then I slowed her down to a walk.

I nudged Mithril towards the river and told her to drink and eat a little, if she felt like it.  
I did not dismount, although I would have really liked to. But there were no boulders nearby that I could use to mount again, so I would have to lower the stirrup to mount her again and I wasn't sure if I could adjust the stirrup from up on Mithril's back the way it had been. So I remained where I was, trying to relax my back by rotating both shoulders frequently while Mithril walked along the banks of the river, grazing a little and drinking some water.  
I ate the last of the apples Éowyn had given me.

Afterwards I took a look at the sun and decided we should get going again.  
I stroked Mithril's neck and offered her a small piece of lembas. She crunched it merrily, then perked her ears up. I felt that she was eager to run again. _ "Ego," _ I whispered. _ "Nan Ethring!" _  
Now. To Ethring.

Mithril walked back onto the road and sped up, trotting, cantering, galloping, flying!

On we raced, on and on, as the day flew by. Running like that there were no thoughts in my mind at all, no fear, no worries, no hopes. There was only the feeling of connection between Mithril and me and the exhilaration of shared power and speed.

Of the landscape around me I saw nothing.

Green hills and plains blurred around me, the road a brown river flowing away below us. I felt almost removed from the world, from the passage of time, as if Mithril and I had created a separate space for us to fly in, where time and distance had no meaning.

And on we raced, on and on and on.

The afternoon went by. Dusk fell. There were no clouds and I felt more than saw tiny silver pinpoints of stars above us as the day slowly waned.

"_Ú-geleg erin Ethring, _ slow down at Ethring," I called to Mithril as I noticed the dark line of another river at a distance ahead of us. We had almost reached the river Ringló, where we had to turn onto another road leading away to the southwest, to Tarnost.

Mithril snorted wearily. By now I was so in tune with her movements that I knew that the long day's race was finally beginning to tire even the strong Meara.

I slowed her down to a walk.  
"It's not far now, Mithril," I whispered, stroking her hot, damp neck.

It was fully dark now. In the sky above us myriads of stars were shining brightly, but in the east there were no stars at all, only a gathering darkness, blacker than the blackest night. A spreading of gloom and evil. I shuddered. War was at hand.

"It's only thirty miles from Ethring to Tarnost, Mithril. We'll make it. Easily. We have covered around 150 miles already today. 30 miles are nothing to that."

It was true, too. I had looked at the maps.

The Meara had covered thrice the distance an ordinary horse could run in a day.  
She gasped, her flanks flying, her coat drenched in sweat. But she was still able to run.

Haste was needed. Haste she would make!

It was around nine o' clock in the evening, I guessed.  
We would reach Tarnost not long after midnight.

**ooo**

When we came closer to the bridge I realized that there was a small house built next to the bridge. A guard, I thought. Of course. 

The house was more like a small tower. Its window slits were brightly lit. On a bench in front of the house two warriors were sitting and playing cards. They wore bright silvery armour and at the wall they had propped up long spears. They also carried long swords and daggers.

The bridge was closed with a thorny fence.

As soon as I came closer they dropped their playing cards. They were on their feet, their spears pointed at me in a blink.  
"Stop!" they called out to me in gruff voices with a strange melodic lilt to their use of the Common Tongue. "Who are you? And what is your business abroad so late in the evening?"  
"Good evening, sirs," I called out politely. "My name is Lothíriel. I bear a message for Prince Imrahil. Is he still at Tarnost?"  
They stared at me in astonishment, only now realizing that I was a woman.  
"Yes, " the younger warrior said. "The Prince is there, mustering the army. War is at hand, my lady! You should not ride alone in the night!"  
"I know that war is almost upon us," I told him. "Why do you think I have been chosen to carry this message?"  
"But who is the message from?" the older guard asked, his eyes full of suspicion.  
"Not that it's any of your business," I replied. "But it is a message from Gandalf the White, Mithrandir, the Grey Pilgrim,. So you'd better not hinder my passage."  
"The Grey Pilgrim! Isildur's heir!" the men called out and there was awe on their faces.  
"Then help is on its way?" they looked at me with eager hope.  
"Yes," I said. "It is. That's why I have to get to Prince Imrahil tonight. Can I water my horse somewhere?"  
"Of course," the first guard pointed a few feet to the right of the bridge. "Down there. Would you like to eat something, or drink something yourself, my lady?"  
"No, thank you. Haste is needed. Just a little respite for my horse and then I will be on my way."  
Although I did feel that these men were no danger to me, I did not trust them.  
Although every bone in my body hurt and my muscles were knots of pain, I would only dismount at Tarnost and not one mile before it.

The guard showed me to the river but kept his distance. I relaxed slightly.  
"What a beautiful horse!" the guard said, his voice filled with admiration.  
I smiled and patted Mithril's neck. "She's a Meara of the Royal Stables of Edoras."  
"One of Oromë's horses!" astonishment and wonder coloured the young man's voice.  
"You will reach Tarnost tonight easily then, my lady."

Mithril had finished drinking and now tossed her head, as if she wanted to say, let's get going, let's get it done.

The young guard escorted me across the bridge to the crossroads.  
"This is the road to Tarnost, my lady. It is well maintained and runs fairly straight. Tarnost is a huge walled fortress on a foothill of the Hills of Tarnost. You cannot miss it."  
"Thank you," I said. Then I bent down on Mithril's neck. "_Ego! Sí cell, Mithril, sí cell, meduí lû! _Now you have to run, Mithril, now you have to run, one last time! _Erín-othrad nan Darnost! _On the road to Tarnost! _Ú-vetho em-epin! _Don't stop until we are there!"

And off we were again, flying through the darkness.

**ooo**

We were beyond weary and aching, but haste drove us. And Mithril was a true Meara, a queen of horses. She would not slow down or stop until we had reached our destination.  
Soon my eyes became accustomed to the darkness of the night again. I could see the road ahead of us easily in the light of the stars. Soon I could discern the dark shapes of small mountains in the distance. The road led straight to those mountains. Those had to be the Hills of Tarnost. 

We were almost there.

Only a short time later the fortress of Tarnost became visible before us. Built high on a hill, this was a fortress built to withstand any attack. The road that led up to the battlements was steep and I slowed Mithril down to a walk. Her head drooped wearily, her breath was heavy and painful. My heart ached for my horse's weariness, although I was tired to the marrow of my bones myself.

The vegetation reminded me of the Mediterranean. Scattered woodlands of oaks and pines, gorse bushes as far as I could discern any details in the darkness. We had come far to the south during our long day's ride.

Finally I crossed a drawbridge across a deep dike that opened to my left an almost sheer rock face and to my right went on into the shadows, surrounding the accessible part of the fortress. I had made it.

This was Tarnost.

"Hello!" I called out, my voice hoarse and tired. "Let me in! I have an urgent message for the Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth from Gandalf the White!"  
I nudged Mithril to step into a pool of light created by the set of torches way up on the walls.  
"Who are you?" a male voice called out to me.  
"My name is Lothíriel. I have a message from Gandalf for Prince Imrahil."

Let me in, I thought, my bones hurting from weariness. _Let me in. _

"Show the message."  
I wanted to scream. I was so tired. I wanted to get rid of this message and lie down and sleep.  
Sleep! Sleep and never move for _days_!  
I reached into my cloak and pulled the roll of parchment out. Carefully turning the seal into the light I held it out towards the gate.  
"That seems to be in order," the voice finally said. "We will open the doors."

I put the message back inside my cloak.  
Noiselessly the gates opened before me. I nudged Mithril on and so we entered the fortress of Tarnost around midnight on the ninth of March.  
The walls of the battlements were so wide that it seemed to me as if we rode through a long tunnel before we finally entered a wide courtyard. There were stables and barracks and many houses, and a few yards ahead another set of battlements and walls, and only behind this second line of defense there was the castle, a huge castle, with many towers and many windows, most of them still bright with firelight.

Two tall guards stepped up to me. They wore silver armour and over their armour they wore blue tunics lined in silver and on their breasts there was the image of a ship and a silver bird flying up from the ship, stitched in silver. They had long spears and at their sides swords and daggers, like the guards at the river, but their armour and weaponry was of a much finer craftsmanship. So much was evident even to my untrained eye.

_Dismount. _ I had to dismount.  
For a dizzying moment my body would not obey me.  
Then I slid down from Mithril's back and would have collapsed had the guard standing next to me not caught me in his arms.  
"But – you're a woman!" he exclaimed.  
My, aren't you smart, I thought grumpily, trying to get my legs back under me with no real success.  
"Yes," I said. "I know. They could not spare a warrior."

"But they did spare a kingly horse!" the other guard cried, taking a good look at Mithril. "And look, how tired she is! Where did you come from today, my lady?"  
Still leaning heavily on the arm of the first guard, I answered, "I departed from the Stone of Erech way before dawn."  
"But that's impossible," the guard called out. "That's leagues and leagues! More than 180 miles as the crow flies and much farther using the road! Normally you need at least three days and six horses for that distance! At least!"  
"That's not impossible," I replied. "That's a Meara. Now, could you please take me to the Prince Imrahil now? The message I carry is _really_ urgent!"

I was so tired that I felt close to tears.  
"Of course, my lady," the guard who was supporting me said. "At once!"  
I turned to the other guard. "Would you look after Mithril? Take special care of her? She is a royal Meara."  
The guard bowed to me.  
"I will, my lady. Don't worry! Your horse shall be cared for like the Queen she is!" he promised.  
"_Pado na dírn, _ go with the guard, Mithril. _Tírthon-chen arínann. _ I will look for you tomorrow morning."  
Mithril gave a weary neigh, then tossed her head and allowed herself to be led away to the stables.

"Come, my lady. We have to walk to the castle. But don't worry, it's not far."  
The guard offered me his arm to lean on, which I gratefully accepted.  
"Thank you – sir?" I said questioningly.  
"Marhil, my Lady."  
"Marhil, then. I am all stiff and sore, I have been in the saddle all day, and I am not an experienced rider," I explained.  
"It's a miracle that you made it here, then," the man told me.  
"Not a miracle. Mithril. My horse," I replied honestly.

We walked slowly up to the second set of walls. The guard called a few words in a language that I did not understand and the gates opened before us.

Inside the second ring of walls were many large buildings, a small town had been built up here, safe behind two sets of battlements. Most of the houses were dark and quiet, peacefully asleep. But the castle was not. From somewhere I heard the sound of smithies still hard at work, the hiss of the bellows and the sound of metal under powerful hammer strokes.  
"My lord has called all able bodied men to be mustered. Swords and spears and armour are fashioned day and night in our smithies. The enemy will strike soon."  
The guard glanced to the blackness of the eastern horizon uneasily.

Then we were at the gate of the castle. Again the guard spoke in that strange language, announcing us and probably giving a password.

The door opened. We entered and found us face to face with four guards in blue liveries.  
Marhil nodded at the guards and led me on into the castle. First we entered yet another courtyard. Then through a large door banded with intricately metal fittings and up a broad flight of stairs. When we had reached the landing, we were in front of another set of doors; this time they were made of a very dark wood and had door knobs made of brass.

Marhil knocked. A deep voice called from the inside. "Come!"  
Marhil opened the door and stepped inside, bowing deeply.  
I followed him a little unsteady on my feet and bowed, too, though not quite as low. Had I tried to bow suitably low, I would have toppled over.  
Marhil straightened up and said in a low, respectful voice, "My Lord Prince, the Lady Lothíriel has ridden all day to bring you a message from Gandalf the Wizard."

We were standing in a great hall. The floor was made of large flag stones, smooth with age and covered with red carpets. In the middle of the hall was a long table made of dark wood, well lit by a large chandelier with at least fifty candles that was suspended from the enormous dark beams that supported the ceiling. It was covered with maps and parchment. A tall man had been bent over those maps and was now standing next to the table, looking at us. The Prince Imrahil was an imposing figure. He was very tall and had the litheness of movement that I knew from the elves but the powerful built of a warrior of men. He had white blond hair that was tied into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. His eyes were of such a light silver colour that they seemed to be almost white and they were very keen and piercing. He wore black trousers and high leather boots, a silver-grey shirt and a royal blue tunic. His sword lay on the table, but there was a large, curved dagger at his belt.  
Behind the table roared a large log fire in a huge fireplace. In front of the fire I noticed the prone shapes of at least three enormous, shaggy grey dogs.

"A message from Gandalf?" the Prince called out, astonished, but eager. His voice was dark and cool, and he spoke with that strange musical lilt that I had noticed with guards.  
Then he looked at me and raised his eyebrows in surprise. He bowed to me lightly.  
"Come in, my lady, and sit down! Surprise makes me forget my manners," he gestured to a chair at the end of the table. He nodded to the guard. "You may go, Marhil. But tell Gawin to prepare a room. And have him send up some mulled cider."

Marhil bowed and backed out of the hall, closing the door silently behind him.

I slumped down in the chair. Then I reached into my cloak and took out the roll of parchment.  
I offered it to the Prince. My arm was shaking with the effort, and I could see that blood was seeping through the bandage at my wrist.  
"My Lord Prince. Your Highness," I said, unsure how to address him. He smiled at me. It was an easy smile, making him years younger than his fifty-something years. "My Lord will be sufficient, my lady," he told me. I nodded weakly.

He took the parchment and examined the seal thoroughly. Then he broke the seal and swiftly scanned the message. He sat down in a large arm chair across from me, letting his hands drop into his lap, still holding the parchment.

He looked into the distance, his eyes unfocused, his thoughts far away.  
"Then it begins," he said softly, more to himself than to me.

Silence fell, and for a long moment the only sound was the crackling of the fire and a groaning yawn issued by one of the dogs.

Imrahil sighed and turned his attention to me, "Tell me, Lady Lothíriel, what do you know of this message and how do you come to be here tonight."  
I blinked wearily, trying to gather my thoughts.  
"The message," I said slowly. "Gandalf the White, I met him at Edoras, and he said that the Steward of Gondor, Lord Denethor, had failed to muster Gondor's army. Gandalf said that you had a large host of great warriors at you command, my lord, and that Minas Tirith would need every man that could be spared. Gandalf thinks that the enemy will strike at Minas Tirith no later than the fifteenth. He told me to ride swiftly as the wind, and tell you to go to Minas Tirith with every warrior you have. And to be there no later than the fourteenth of March."

I sighed and rubbed at my temples. I was dizzy with weariness.

After a soft knock the door opened, and a slender young man with golden curls approached the table. He carried a tray with a steaming pitcher and two beakers. He set the tray down and filled the mugs, serving first the Prince, then me. I gratefully folded my hands around the warm beaker, inhaling the fragrance of apple and spices. I sipped at the hot liquid carefully. The warmth revived my ability to concentrate on my task and my surroundings again.

The young servant bowed and wanted to leave, but Imrahil held up his hand, "That will be all for the moment, Gawin, but come back in half an hour. The Lady is very tired. There are only a few more questions I need answered, then you can escort her to her room."

Gawin inclined his head gracefully, then left the room, closing the door silently behind him.

Imrahil looked back at me, "Where did you come from today, that you arrive so late and are so exhausted? Was there any trouble on the road? For I can see that you are hurt."  
I shook my head. "No, there was no trouble. I was kidnapped by orcs in February and the wounds are not fully healed yet. They must have opened again during the ride today. I came with Aragorn, Arathorn's son, Isildur's heir through the Paths of the Dead. I parted from them only this morning, at the Stone of Erech. They are riding for Pelargir with a company of Dúnedain of the North and the sons of Elrond. They have called up the Army of the Dead. They are going to fight the corsairs of Umbar, so that Minas Tirith will not be beset from the east and the south at the same time."

Where the guards gasped and showed excitement, Imrahil only nodded. Only a gleam in his light grey eyes betrayed any emotion. I realized that he knew Aragorn.

Not waiting for the question how I had been able to ride 180 miles, I went on, "I have been given a Meara from the Royal Stables of Edoras, or I would not have been able to be here tonight. But Gandalf said that haste was needed and that time is running out. So Mithril, my horse, and I tried to outrun the wind."  
"And you succeeded," Imrahil said. "The message has been heard and will be acted upon. Aragorn will not stand alone against the hosts of Mordor. The troops of the fief of Belfalas are almost ready to march. We will reach Minas Tirith in time. I have to praise your endurance and your courage, my lady. Many men in Minas Tirith will thank you for your swiftness in the dark days that lie ahead. I was tarrying and not sure when to leave. I would have waited too long, had you not come here tonight."

I shivered suddenly. _War was at hand. _Only now I realized just _how_ vital the message had been that I had carried here today. I was indeed a messenger of war, calling upon forces that were necessary for the very survival of Minas Tirith and its people. I did not realize before what my message really meant. I was glad that I hadn't. I would have been so tense and frightened that I would never have made it here tonight.

"Now go to bed, my lady," Imrahil said kindly. "Sleep and recover your strength. We will have time to speak in the morning, before we leave for Minas Tirith."  
"Thank you, my lord," I replied, my voice hoarse with fatigue.

**ooo**

I know that I must have followed Gawin – who had returned to the hall as if on cue – to the room that had been prepared for me, because that is where I woke on the next day, but I cannot remember how I left the hall or how I made it to my room. Even my memories of this first conversation with Prince Imrahil are blurred by weariness to this day. 

Mithril, queen of all horses had made it.

She had carried me all the way from the Stone of Erech to Tarnost in one single day. I had delivered my message, and now the troops of Prince Imrahil would reach Minas Tirith in time.

In time for war.  
In time for death.

**oooOooo**

* * *

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JunoMagic


	31. Coming and Going

**31. Coming and Going  
**

When I woke it was still early in the morning.  
I came awake only gradually. For a dizzying moment of disorientation I did not know where I was. I simply sat in the bed and stared at my surroundings: a small room with stone walls hung with tapestries, a red carpet on a flag stone floor, a wardrobe and a chest with an ewer and a washing bowl of white porcelain on top of it, a faintly medieval looking chair and in the thick wall a window with greenish glass set in small, round bull's eye panes and a window seat with a cushion in a deep red colour. 

A castle. I was in a castle.  
Tarnost!

I swung my feet off the bed, tried to stand and collapsed back on the bed immediately, groaning with pain.  
My legs hurt.  
My bottom hurt!  
It felt almost unbearable to stand or walk.

Then I noticed that my backpack had been placed in the corner next to the wardrobe.  
_Athelas!_ The jar Éowyn had given me as a farewell-gift. It was in my backpack!  
I gulped. I had to _walk_ to my backpack. Gathering my courage I tried to stand again. I managed to remain upright, although my knees did not only feel like jelly, they also seemed to do a little jig that made it really difficult to stay upright.

Drawing a deep breath I stumbled-hurried over to my backpack, picked it up and ran-fell back to the bed, where I collapsed groaning. Do you know how it feels when your muscles are so sore that every movement hurts and you feel so _weird_ that all you can do is groan and giggle, because you cannot really control your body anymore?

That's how I felt just then.  
For some time I just lay on the bed and gasped and moaned.  
Then I pried my backpack open and rummaged around for the precious jar.  
There it was!  
It was a different mixture from the one Aragorn used and there was pepper in it, too, and some other herbs. But when I slathered it on my aching legs and buttocks, the pain vanished. Not immediately, but blissfully soon.

When I was able to take in my surroundings once more, I grew aware of a muted roar outside my window. It sounded like hundreds of people running around and screaming like mad.  
I hobbled over to the window and opened it. Kneeling on the cushion of the window seat, I leaned on the sill and looked outside. I was somewhere in the second or third floor. From my room I had an excellent view of the castle, its courtyard, the town in the second ring of battlements, and the barracks and stables in the outlying ring of walls.  
Although it was way after dawn there was no sun and the light was grey with gloomy shadows. The eastern sky was blacker than the darkest night. _A day without a dawn._ Fear swept through me. Apprehension ran down my spine like an ice-cube sliding down on my naked skin, raising goose bumps on my arms and on my back.

I shuddered and quickly turned my eyes away from the dark sky and looked down.

I felt as if I was looking down at an anthill.

Everywhere there was movement. Hundreds, no, thousands of people were milling around in the courtyards and the streets. In the outer ring of walls I could see many tall horses that were being led out of the stables to be groomed and saddled, but there were also many big dogs chained to the walls, and at the back of the outer yard there were a number of wagons that were being laden with supplies and provisions. In the second ring there were indeed masses of people running around between the houses and on the squares, apparently milling around aimlessly and shouting and screaming for no reason at all. They were mainly tall men wearing armour and bearing arms, but there were also women and children adding their shrill voices to the general clamour.

In the courtyard of the castle things were slightly calmer. As far as I could see, it was here that everyone had to come to collect their weapons and armour. Here and there knots of people had formed around men trying out their weapons. The metallic clanging of swords clashing against each other now and again rose up above the general din. There were several large stands with heaps of implements I could not discern at this distance, but at the foremost stall a young man with red hair raised a sword to the sky and the fiery light of the many torches that were still lit around the courtyard made the blade shine in a reddish-silver gleam.

My heart started pounding.  
I realized finally what it was that I was looking at.  
I was looking at an army getting ready for war. Getting ready for death.

I had once watched American soldiers marching through Erlangen getting ready to be transported to Iraq, when Kuwait had been attacked. I had been on my way to school and we had had to stop and wait for the tanks to pass us by. It had been an eerily quiet, sombre scene. The only sound had been the tanks rumbling on the streets. Between the tanks some soldiers had walked along, men and women, their faces serious and composed. I remembered this scene, because I had thought, _so this is what it looks like going to war._

_Now_ I was looking at a completely different scene.

_Different _ noisy, confusing, violent.  
And yet the same: they were going to war and many of them would not return.

My stomach cramped. I _knew_ the battle they would see. I _knew_ the superior strength of the enemy they would face. _**Most** of them would not return. _

In that instance I understood Éowyn for the first time. Suddenly I felt like a coward to remain behind when all of these men went forth to fight against that evil enemy that wanted to destroy our lives and our lands. I wanted to go to Minas Tirith, too, and fight! Every man was needed. Then surely every able-bodied woman was needed, too!

But I knew it wasn't so. Women who knew how to fight were needed. Women like Éowyn were needed. Even if her brother and her uncle did not like that idea.

But women like me?

I sighed. I barely knew how to defend my life. I would only be a certain casualty. I knew almost nothing about first-aid. So I could not even help as a… what would the Red-Cross-personnel be called here? Healers? I also did not remember the strategic details of the battles from the stories. I sighed and clenched my teeth. I had to admit to myself that there was really nothing I could do at Minas Tirith. But Éowyn would be there, I thought. She would fight bravely. _Brave enough for all the women of Middle-earth. _This knowledge comforted me, but not much. This was my home now, too, and I realized that I loved it with all my heart. I wanted so much to help defend it in these last, deciding battles.

Then I remembered last night.

Prince Imrahil had said that he wanted to talk to me again in the morning. So what was I doing here, dreaming away at the window?

I closed the window again. Groaning once more, I slid down from the window seat and slowly made my way to the washing bowl. There was a blue linen towel and a piece of soap that smelled of lily of the valley. I washed and brushed my teeth quickly. I really would have to think about finding something I could use as toothpaste, if I wanted to keep my teeth.  
Then I dressed in faded blue jeans, a grey silk shirt from Imladris, a blue tunic from Edoras and the leather slippers I had bought in Caras Galadhon. I tied my hair in a ponytail with a bit of blue ribbon and hoped that it would hold. My hair had grown quite a bit and it was so tangled and wind blown that I was afraid I would never get it smooth again.

There was no mirror, but I saw a wavering reflection of me in the windowpanes.  
I looked thinner than I remembered. The jeans certainly were much wider than when I had walked towards Bree six months ago. I guess I could count myself lucky that the societies of Middle-earth did not share the traditions of earth as far as female attire was concerned. Although it was more common for women to wear skirts and robes, it was not unusual for women to wear tights or trousers, if a long tunic was worn over them. This was a style that I found quite appealing. It flattered my figure, too.

I grimaced. I realized that I was stalling. _Get going, Lothíriel,_ I thought. _After all, the Prince was very nice last night. Why should he be any different this morning? _

I opened the door and went outside.

**ooo**

I found myself in a stone corridor that was almost brightly lit by twin candle sconces set at regular intervals at both sides of the corridor. On the floor was a blue carpet and at the walls dark oil colours were hung. _A real, live, **wealthy** castle._ I raised my eyebrows. _Cool._

I had no idea where to go. Probably to the right. The entrance to the castle was to the right hand side. I walked down the corridor. It turned out to be the correct decision. After about thirty feet the corridor opened on a wide staircase.  
I slowly made my way downstairs, groaning and moaning now and then. After I had descended two flights of stairs, I found myself on a landing that I recalled from the previous night. Those large doors with their brass doorknobs led to the great hall.

But where should I go now?

Although there was this enormous hubbub outside, inside the castle everything was quiet, and I had not seen anyone at all. I stood on the landing, feeling a bit lost and nervous.  
Should I simply try the great hall? But I did not want to disturb any important meeting…  
Should I have stayed in my room? Well, it was too late for that.

Opposite of the Great Hall a wide corridor with a number of doors on either side led away into the interior of the castle. Suddenly I heard the sound of a door being opened at the end of the corridor. My heart sped up, but then I almost sighed with relief. It was the young man from the night before, the servant called Gawin. Though now that I saw him in daylight, I thought that he was probably the Prince's squire and not a simple servant. Gawin saw me and immediately hurried towards me.

"Lady Lothíriel! I never expected you to be up so early after that long ride!"  
Gawin was probably around seventeen years old. He was so handsome that he was almost pretty; his face was still soft and innocent with youth. His hair was a mob of golden curls and he had very blue eyes, the colour of forget-me-nots.  
I smiled at him. "I guess I am so used to getting up early that I can't sleep in anymore."  
Gawin returned the smile, but then he became all business like. "Would you like some breakfast? And my Lord Prince wants to talk with you again as soon as you are ready."  
"Breakfast would be lovely, thank you. And do you have some clean bandages for me?"  
I indicated the dirty strips of linen around my wrists.

Gawin paled slightly. "Of course, my lady. I will call the Prince's healer at once. If you will follow me? The room where the ladies take breakfast is just over here."  
I followed him.  
"The ladies?" I asked, curious about which noble ladies might be in a castle where an army was mustered. The Prince's daughter? The other Lothíriel?  
"Oh, the noble ladies of the Prince's family. But in times like this, there is no lady here now except Lady Elaine, the healer of Tarnost. She rises way before dawn however, so you will have to take your breakfast alone. But if you wish it, I can keep you company." From the sound of his voice I knew that he really had too much to do to sit with a strange lady eating her breakfast.  
"No, no there's no need for that. I am well able to eat on my own," I joked and was rewarded with a quick grin on Gawin's part. He opened the door and bowed me into a room that was held in pale green colours. Definitely a ladies' room. There was a long elegant table and pretty chairs covered in brocades of the same pale green colour as the walls. The drapes at the windows were done in a deep forest green.

"Please, have a seat, my lady," Gawin said. "I will have breakfast brought to you and then I will send for the Lady Elaine to care for your wounds."  
He bowed again and softly closed the door behind me. I did not sit down at once but instead wandered around the room. The windows were actually French doors opening into a small courtyard with a square of lawn and a small fountain. In the walls on either side of the room, close to the windows, doors led to the neighbouring rooms. The walls of the other three sides of the small courtyard also sported large French doors set with clear glass. Probably the Prince's private rooms, I thought. Window glass and especially clear window glass was difficult to produce with medieval methods and very expensive. Therefore only the richest had glass windows at all and only the very richest could afford large, clear windows.

I turned back to the room. Apart from the long table and its twelve chairs there was not much furniture in the room. There were four pedestals with potted green plants and a fireplace lined with white marble. On the wall opposite of the fireplace was a large oil painting with a garden scene. It was vaguely impressionist.

I sat down on one of the chairs and stared at the painting. The way the painting was done made me wonder about human society in Middle-earth. As far as I could tell, the societies of men had a more or less medieval level of culture and technology. There were no industries of any kind; there was no electricity, no steam engines. The weapons were swords, bows, crossbows, daggers, scythes, scimitars, spears and the like. There seemed to be no explosives of any kind used by men in warfare. But there were explosives. Gandalf's fireworks, for example, which had been described to me in detail by Sam. And Gimli had told me how the dwarves used explosives in their mines.

Society… the structures of society were more rigid than on earth. Or were they? I was not really sure. Aragorn had not objected to the fact that Éowyn had wanted to fight. He had, as far as I had gathered from Éowyn, only believed that her appointed task as stewardess of Rohan was more important than fighting with a sword.

Boromir… he had not been used to a woman like me, speaking her mind and, well, using her brain… he had been intrigued by that… But perhaps that was only because of his father's personality… if Denethor was at all like the books or the movies…

I arrived at the conclusion that I did not really know anything about human culture in Middle-earth. I sighed. And when could I have come to know anything about it, either? After all, I had spent most of my time in Middle-earth on the road.

I turned back to the painting. The sweet colours of the painting and the advanced sense of perception it portrayed reassured me. However medieval the peoples of Middle-earth might be, their culture was not crude. I suddenly comprehended why I had been thinking along these lines. I was trying to imagine how I would live when the war of the ring was over.  
**When** the war of the ring was over…

_The war would be over._ Soon. And if the stories were true, my friends would survive it. I would see them again! In happiness and peace! And then I could make my life here… somewhere… But it was difficult to wrap my mind around that concept. To really live here. In peace. And forever!  
How would that be?  
I just could not imagine how it would be.  
But it would be. It would be!  
I would just have to wait and see.

There was a knock on the door and a young girl in a white apron, her hair covered by a pale blue coif, entered the room bearing a tray.  
"My lady," the girl said in a high clear voice. "Your breakfast. And the Lady Elaine will be here in a few minutes to look at your wounds."  
The girl put the tray before me and curtsied, bright brown eyes looking at me full of curiosity from beneath dark lashes.  
"Thank you," I said, still feeling slightly uncomfortable at being waited upon. The girl bobbed and was gone.

I looked at the tray. A hobbit would not be happy with this morning meal. But for me it was more than enough. There was a glass of orange juice, reminding me that I had come far to the south. A plate with a thick omelette sprinkled lightly with freshly cut herbs. Brown bread, butter, a small bowl of golden honey. A cup of a steaming brown liquid. Coffee? I snatched up the cup and sniffed hopefully. No. It wasn't coffee. But it wasn't tea, either. I sipped at it. Coffee? Cocoa? Something with caffeine in it, anyway. It tasted like a mixture of coffee and cocoa. _Klah imported from Pern?_ I grinned. I would be the last person to try and argue with anyone who told me that he or she came from another world.

After all, I _was_ in another world!

I was the living and breathing proof of the theory of parallel universes! And the relativity of time, as well, I mused. This brought my thoughts back to Tolkien. While I was busily eating my breakfast – lovely omelette – I pondered the matter of Tolkien. How could he have known so much? How could he have been so wrong in some details? Why had he come to my world and written and published the story there? **Who the hell was he?**

He had to come from Middle-earth originally. Of that much I was sure. And he had to have witnessed the quest of the fellowship and the war of the ring. He had come to my world after the war was over and he had to have gone back in time coming to my world, because obviously the war of the rings had not yet taken place in Middle-earth when the books had been published in my world. He had to know the elves well because of the myths and elvish history published in the Silmarillion and all those other books. Who could he possibly be? And _why_ had he done this?

I looked at my plate and was slightly astonished. The riddle of Tolkien might pose more questions than answers, but my breakfast was finished.

As if on cue, the door opened again. Again it was a woman who entered the room. But a very different kind of woman. Lady Elaine was tall and regal. She had black hair tied into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were grey and calm with the promise of a fierce sparkle. She was dressed in dark robes and a white apron spotted with streaks of dirt and dried blood.

I swallowed hard. A healer.

"Good morning," Elaine said. Her voice was dark and soothing. An asset for a healer, I thought. It put me at ease, too. I rose from my chair and bowed to her. Never curtsy in trousers, Éowyn had told me. I had decided never to wear skirts. I can't curtsy.

"You have to be Lady Lothíriel, the brave messenger from Gandalf the wizard."

"Yes, my name is Lothíriel. But I am not really brave," I said, extending my hand to her, completely forgetting that I had only seen men shake hands in Middle-earth.

But she took my hand and shook it in a relaxed and friendly manner.  
"My name is Elaine. I am the niece of Prince Imrahil and in charge of the healers of the army of Belfalas. I am told that you suffer from wounds you received fighting against orcs?"  
She put a leather bag that obviously contained the instruments of her trade on the table.

"It's not so bad, really. My wrists and ankles were cut by ropes tying me up. The wounds were stitched and treated at Edoras, but I think they opened again at least partly on that ride. And the bandages are pretty dirty," I explained, extending my arms to Elaine.

She nodded. "Yes, I can see that. I will remove the bandages and have a look. Why don't you sit down again, get comfortable? It won't hurt." She noticed my raised eyebrows. Removing bandages stuck to wounds did hurt. I knew that by now.  
She smiled. "It won't hurt much. I promise."  
She swiftly removed the bandage around my right wrist. I yelped only once. It was not as bad as I expected. It had not bled very much, but it still looked pretty bad, crusted with blood and bruised. Well, the other assorted bruises and gashes on my body were by no means healed either, though the bruises were changing their colours and fading slowly.

Looking at my wrists one thing however was clear. I could kiss goodbye any hope of getting away without pretty ugly scars.

Elaine cleaned my wrist with a stinging red lotion. Then she lathered a fragrant salve on the wounds and bandaged them again. The other wrist was not quite as bad.  
The ankles, however, were far worse than the hands. Although they had been protected by my shoes, the shoes and stirrups had rubbed against the inside of the ankles and reopened the wounds there, tearing open some of the stitches.

"I have to redo some of those stitches," Elaine told me. "That can't be done in here. Will you please come with me? It's not far to my office."

I nodded, but did not say anything. Looking at my torn and bleeding ankles dark memories of huge, ugly shapes moving towards me had returned to my mind, vivid and terrible even in daylight and so far away from Amon Hen.

Lady Elaine led me into the lower part of the castle. Her office was on the ground level, close to the kitchens with their supplies of hot water and herbs. The main room of the infirmary was very much like any doctor's office on earth. Lots of shelves with books and jars and instruments, and in the middle of the room there was a stretcher for patients to lie down on for treatment.

I lay down there and wistfully thought of modern anaesthetics.  
"Now, don't worry, it won't be really painful," Elaine said soothingly.  
I must admit I did not believe her. "Really painful" is open to interpretation.  
It was… pretty painful.

She had a young man come in as an assistant to hold my legs.  
It was necessary, too. The pain was too strong for me to keep from twitching.  
She first removed the thread of the torn stitches.  
Then she cleaned the wounds thoroughly with a stinging solution.  
Next, she threaded a rounded surgical needle with a thread and set to work redoing the stitches.  
No anaesthetics, no surgical gloves, no sterile nothing.  
And it hurt. It hurt a lot.  
But she worked expertly and fast.  
When she was finished, she cleaned the wounds again. At last she applied some more salve to my ankles and bandaged them carefully.

Then she helped me sit up and made me drink a cup of tea, which tasted of bitter herbs and honey. Painkiller. Willow bark? I knew that there was acetylsalicylic acid in willow bark and that modern aspirin had first been distilled from willow bark. But whatever it was, it tasted gross.  
"There, see, it wasn't too bad. But you should not do any hard riding or walking for a few weeks yet. The wounds are clean and have not become inflamed. We want to keep it that way, don't we?" Elaine told me.  
I only nodded weakly.

"I think my uncle would like to see you now. Do you feel up to it or should I tell him that you have to lie down for an hour or two before any serious discussion of the matters at hand?"  
"No," I said. The muscles of my jaws hurt from gritting my teeth so hard against the pain.  
"I am quite alright now."

_I hope._ But I did not say that out loud. I was young, I was healthy and both Éowyn and Elaine were obviously accomplished healers. And there were only four deep wounds, after all. And none of them were life-threatening in any way.

"Very well," Elaine said. "Gawin will lead you to my uncle."  
She disappeared and returned only a moment later in the company of the young squire.  
I got to my feet, wincing more than just slightly and followed Gawin out of the infirmary, my gait wobbly and awkward. In the door I turned and looked back. Elaine was already busy again, packing jars and bottles into small wooden chests, preparing for war in the way healers do.

"Thank you, my lady," I said. Elaine raised her head and smiled at me. "You're welcome. I hope we will meet again, some day."

I nodded, at a loss for words. In a field hospital, Elaine would be in considerable danger even if she did not fight. There was no Geneva Convention in Middle-earth, no Haager Landkriegsordnung, no rules about dealing with non-combatants.

**ooo**

I followed Gawin slowly back to the Great Hall. He knocked, and again was answered by the deep voice of the Prince: "Come in!" 

Prince Imrahil was not alone this time. Three officers clad in silver mail were with him, one dark haired, the others grey, all of them tall and powerfully built. Prince Imrahil wore armour, too; his sword was at his belt. Of the many maps and pieces of parchment that had littered the long table last night only a map of Gondor and Mordor remained, tacked to the table. The large grey dogs were still there, but now they were sitting next to the table, their height so great that their heads were actually _above_ the table. They looked alert, but calm, and did only turn their heads when we entered.

"The Lady Lothíriel, my Lord Prince," Gawin said and bowed. I bowed, too.  
"Thank you, Gawin. I think you can get my horses ready now and please, take the dogs with you."  
"Very well, my lord." Gawin bowed. Then he gave a bright whistle and the dogs followed him out of the room at once.

Prince Imrahil beckoned me forwards.  
"Lord Lorin." That was the dark haired man. He bowed to me and smiled in an easy manner. "Lord Dorlas and Lord Pinnar." Both of them bowed to me, but their demeanour was grim.

"Lady Lothíriel has carried the message from Gandalf the wizard to us with the summons to Minas Tirith. We have to thank her that now there is still a chance to defend Gondor against the shadow of the Black Land." He looked at me and his eyes were grave. "If Minas Tirith falls, the defeat of Gondor will only be a matter of time. Then only Rohan will stand against the black hordes. And Rohan is in no way as heavily defended as Gondor."

"And all their warriors ride for Minas Tirith as we speak, under the command of Théoden King," I added.  
"Really? Then he has recovered? I thought that old age had inevitably darkened his mind!" Imrahil said, looking at me in astonishment.  
"It was not old age," I said. "It was the traitor, Saruman, and his evil spells. But Gandalf cured Théoden and imprisoned Saruman and took away his power."  
"Then there is really hope yet," Lord Lorin called out. "When the allies of old stand together, not all is lost."  
"No," I said. "Not all is lost. There is still hope that Sauron may be defeated."

I knew I could not tell them about the ring, but I tried to sound convinced and hopeful with the news I could give them.

"The men of Belfalas will do everything in their power to defeat the enemy, or at least defend our people and our country and all the free folk of Middle-earth," Prince Imrahil told me. "Our armies will leave today. We will be in Minas Tirith on time."

Then Prince Imrahil turned to his officers. "I think we have talked about everything."  
The men nodded agreement. "When will you be ready to go?"  
Lord Dorlas shrugged. "Two or three hours, maybe, my lord."  
"Make that two," Lord Imrahil ordered.  
"Very well, my lord." The three men bowed, and left the room.

For a long moment Lord Imrahil was silent. His eyes had darkened as if there was something he had to decide on that was very difficult for him. At last he sighed and turned to me.  
"I know I should not ask this of you, especially as you are still wounded and in pain. And I would, of course, understand it if you say that you cannot…"  
"My Lord," I interrupted. "If there is anything I can do to help, if there is anything in my power to aid the fight against the enemy, I will do it."  
The tall man looked at me and smiled. His smile was unexpectedly warm like the sun in the midst of thunder. "You are a truly valiant lady!"

I shook my head. I was not valiant. I was not even really brave. I was scared out of my wits. But knowing Aragorn, Éowyn, Éomer, Gimli, Legolas and the others – in the face of courage such as theirs, what was there left to do, but do what I can and be as brave as I knew how to be?

"What is it that you would have me do, my lord?" I asked.  
Suddenly Prince Imrahil looked tired and much older than he had first appeared to be.  
"There is no time and no man to send with a message to my family at Dol Amroth. My wife and my younger children still hope that I will return to them. They still hope that it won't come to the worst, a battle for the sake of all free folk of Middle-earth. I promised to return before going to war, to say goodbye. Now I have to break this promise I made to the ones that I love. Therefore I would ask you if you could be my messenger in this. Would you take a letter to my wife and my children? I want them to know what happened and that I did not forget them. I feel that I will need their blessing soon… and should I die… I do not want to go without having said goodbye, without having told them as best I can how much I love and cherish them."  
He paused and inhaled deeply. Then he continued briskly, "You would be safe in Dol Amroth, too, or as safe as you can be anywhere in Gondor these days. I would bid you to stay there and dwell with my family until the war is over or…"  
"Don't speak of 'or', my lord," I objected. "I will take any message that you give me and carry it wherever you want me to. The war will be over soon, and there will be peace and happiness everywhere."  
He smiled at me. "Let us hope this will be true."

He reached into his tunic and produced a fat envelope of yellow parchment.  
"This is my letter. We will leave today. Only a few women and old men will remain here. Stay until you feel well enough for the journey and then ride south along the coast to Dol Amroth."  
He motioned for me to take a look at the map and traced his fingers from the clearly marked keep of Tarnost to a road leading along the river to the coast, to Edhellond and along the coast to Dol Amroth.  
"It should be quite safe," he said. "The war will stay in the east for some time yet, no matter how ill the fortunes fall."

The route did not seem difficult or long. I nodded and accepted the envelope. It was still warm from the body heat of the Prince. The seal was blue wax and stamped with the design of ship and swan.

"I will carry your letter safely to your family. I think I will be well enough to ride again tomorrow or at the latest on the day after that. Your family shall have your letter before you are in Minas Tirith, my lord," I promised.

The distance on the map seemed to indicate a three day's ride or so from Tarnost to Dol Amroth. Mithril would manage that easily. I would, too. It would be a lark after the awesome race from the Stone of Erech to Tarnost.

"Thank you, my lady. I will be indebted to you for all of my life!" Prince Imrahil said. Then he took my hand and dropped an air kiss on it.  
I felt heat suffuse my cheeks. I would only carry a letter. There was really nothing to it. Or not much anyway.

"Now I am afraid you have to excuse me. We will leave in two hours. Hopefully," Prince Imrahil said, cocking his head and listening to the subsiding din in the courtyard outside.  
"There are still about a hundred things to be done."

I nodded again. Then I extended my hand, again forgetting that in Middle-earth it was usually only men that shook hands in greeting or farewell. But Prince Imrahil took my hand without hesitation and gripped it tightly. His hand was warm and strong, callused from fighting with sword and spear and holding reins. I smiled at the Prince.  
"Take care, my Lord. May…" _How could I express what I wanted to say without sounding utterly ridiculous? _  
"May all your ways be blessed… that you return home well and victorious."

That sounded quite pompous, but what else could I say? 'I hope you squash a thousand orcs into mush' was not really all that lady-like.

"Thank you, Lady Lothíriel. Blessings on your journey, too." He bowed to me.

I sighed and turned to the door.


	32. Onwards, Gondorian Soldiers!

**32. Onwards, Gondorian soldiers!**

I left the great hall and slowly made my way back up the stairs to the room where I had slept. I felt slightly dazed. A dreamlike haze seemed to separate me from the world. I felt the stone of the steps under my feet. I smelled the castle air – castles always smell like castles, apparently, even when they are not museums but are actually inhabited: there was that cool smell of stone and dusty carpet and the wax from the candles that I remembered from castles I had visited back on earth. Back on earth the castles had also been quiet. Here, there was no quiet, but the muffled uproar of the men preparing for war outside the walls. 

I felt, saw, smelled and heard all that, but nevertheless I felt strangely removed from reality.  
Perhaps the effect of the painkiller I had been given.  
Perhaps the effect of weeks of fear and danger.  
Although the pain of my body was soothed for the moment, I felt somehow disoriented and very alone.

**ooo**

I found my way back to my room without trouble. The bed had been made and the window was open to freshen the air. I put Prince Imrahil's letter to his family on the small table in the corner of the room. Then I walked to the window once more. It was almost noon by now, but outside a murky twilight lingered. It was not black as in the depth of night. It was a gloomy, dim, oppressing darkness. It was indeed a dawnless day. As if the sun itself had fled from the horror Sauron would unleash on the world any day now. 

Looking down I could see that the chaos in the three circles of walls around the castle had subsided. They were getting ready to go as I looked down on the town and the castle. In two hours the armies of the south-western provinces of Gondor would leave.

What should I do now? Should I remain in my room and wait until they were gone?  
Or should I go down to the great gates and wave them goodbye?  
I knew no one here at all.  
And what good would it do for yet another woman to stand there and wave them goodbye and perhaps even cry?

I hurriedly left the room and ran down the stairs.

**ooo**

The inner courtyard of the castle was almost quiet when I stepped out of the castle's doors. The stalls where I had seen armour and weapons being doled out to the men in the morning were being disassembled by a handful of old men, small boys and women. An open carriage was being loaded with crates and boxes in front of the infirmary. From somewhere inside I heard the calm voice of the Lady Elaine. 

I followed a boy of perhaps ten who was carrying two wooden boxes into the second circle of walls. Here, too, things were calming down. There were almost no men in sight anymore. On the market square a handful of carriages were in the process of being stacked with chests and barrels. Supplies and provisions.

At a corner of the market place a small group of warriors in the blue and silver uniforms of Dol Amroth were waiting for a soldier to say goodbye to his wife. All of them were tall men, clad in bright mail and wearing winged helmets. Most of them were dark haired and grey eyed; they were handsome men, young men, strong men. Men in the 'bloom of their years'.

The man they were waiting for was standing a little apart from his comrades. In front of him was a young woman, dressed in drab homespun skirts and a blue blouse. She had red, curly hair springing free from a hastily tied bun at the nape of her neck. She was a bit chubby, but there was an air of sweetness to her features. On her arm was a small girl, a blond toddler of perhaps a year or two. The woman had been crying; her eyes were red rimmed and very wide. She was doing her best to keep back her tears. Looking at the soldier I knew at once where the little girl had gotten her golden curls from. He was one of the few fair haired people I had seen here so far. For a moment I could see the warrior's profile. He was very pale, the lines of his face tense. He hugged his little family in an awkward threesome embrace, a family hug. I was too far away to hear what he said to his wife, if he said anything at all. But I watched as he turned around and slowly walked to his comrades. Then the group of soldiers started for the gates to the outer court. He did not look back. The woman remained where she was, holding her little girl in a tight embrace.

I quickly looked away and started to walk down to the outer court myself.

I had learned from Éowyn that you do not say goodbye to a warrior before he leaves for battle. You say a blessing; you might even say 'take care'. But every word is bitter and mocks you even as you speak it.

So I kept my head down and quickly walked along the cobbled pavement of the main street towards the gates leading to the outer courtyard of Tarnost. Some more soldiers hurried past me. A group of agitated women and children. I had to jump not to be run over by a horse drawn carriage. Every old man, every woman and every child of Tarnost seemed to follow the soldiers to the outer gates of Tarnost.

Even if you cannot say goodbye, you cannot simply let them go.

The wide square of the outer ring of Tarnost's battlements was filled with men: warriors, soldiers, fighters.

For a moment I was perplexed by the masses before me and the deafening noise of many hundred voices.

"You will have a better view from up on the sentry walk of the battlements," a soft voice came from behind my back.

I nearly jumped out of my skin with alarm. As I turned around, I found myself face to face with the red haired woman I had watched in the market square. The little girl was hiding her face in her mother's skirts.  
"You are the messenger, aren't you? The messenger of the wizard who brought the summons to battle?" She looked at me, her amber eyes filled with calm curiosity. I swallowed hard. I had brought the message to Tarnost that would take her husband to Minas Tirith and to war. And perhaps never back again. My heart thumped painfully in my chest.  
"Yes," I said finally. "I'm sorry."  
"It's not the messenger's fault when the message is ill-fated," the woman replied. "Come with me."  
She turned and walked to a tower at the edge of the court. I followed her with a heavy heart. A messenger of doom and death. I only hoped that it would not be in vain.

**ooo**

"Here," the woman said and opened a stout wooden door with iron fittings. The inside of the tower was very dark. Only a few flickering torches lit a narrow winding stair. 

We climbed for a long time. Then we reached suddenly a small landing with another door of dark wood. The woman opened the door for me. I stepped out into the gloom of this sunless day. The woman followed, carrying her child on her arm again.

The sentry walk of the outer battlements of Tarnost is broad enough to have two rows of archers or men with crossbows standing on it with still enough room to carry away the wounded at the back of the fighters. Now, there were no soldiers or guards on the sentry walk, but onlookers. We were by far not the only ones that had climbed up to the sentry walk to watch the army leave. The old men and women of Tarnost, along with the girls and the women and children of all ages were up here on the sentry walk. The men and older boys were all down there in the court, wearing armour and bearing weapons and waiting to march to war and death.

The red haired woman walked ahead of me until we were close to the great gates. Only a few feet away from the gates she halted and stepped to the balustrade. For a long moment she looked down at the soldiers.  
Then she turned and looked at me. "I'm Sorcha. This is Solas."  
The little girl smiled at me.  
"I am Lothíriel," I said.  
Sorcha nodded. "I have heard your name."

I went to stand next to her at the balustrade and looked down at the courtyard in front of the barracks and the stables. There seemed to be an enormous number of men down there. They stood in ranks and companies. There were riders and archers and foot soldiers, men armed with spears and men armed with swords; they wore different kinds of armour and the banners at the head of their companies were held in different colours and bore different coats of arms.

"Prince Imrahil has called for all able-bodied men of the south-western provinces of Gondor to take up arms and come to Tarnost at the beginning of Narvinyë when Osgiliath was attacked," Sorcha explained in a low voice. "The forces of the south-western provinces were assembled and ready to march in the middle of Nénimë. But there was no summons from Minas Tirith, no message from the Lord Denethor, nothing. Only rumours of attacks on the border towns and on the villages at the coast. Attacks by orcs and corsairs and those evil men from the south. In a way I am almost happy that the waiting is finally over."  
Sorcha sighed. Her gaze went over the waiting men. "But only three thousand men… how shall that be sufficient to defend Gondor against the Enemy?"  
"The Rohirrim are riding for Minas Tirith, too," I said, trying to sound reassuringly. "They will aid the forces of Gondor."

But then I remembered something from the books. _Outnumbered._ The forces of Gondor were outnumbered. _Ten to one or worse…_  
The memory echoed in my mind.  
_But in the end,_ I thought as firmly as I could, _in the end we will win. _  
But the voice of fear and dread would not be silent._ And how many will be dead?_

"Perhaps that will help," Sorcha said, but there was a noticeable lack of conviction in her voice. I gulped. I turned back to the colourful array of warriors in the yard. The last carriages with supplies rumbled down from the castle and the market square of the town to join the ranks of the other wagons. There were about a dozen carriages with supplies and provisions altogether.

"There," Sorcha pointed. "These are the men of Ringló Vale; it's the son of their lord who leads them, Lord Dervorin, the tall one with the black helmet."  
The men of Ringló Vale were foot soldiers. I scanned their ranks and thought that they must number two or three hundred grim faced men.

"And behind them are the men from the highlands of Morthond. Three companies of two hundred bow men each. The Lord Duinhir and his eldest sons, Duilin and Derufin, lead them."  
These were tall men clad in green but wearing no armour. Their banner was green, too, and it showed a black globe. The Stone of Erech I was told later, because they believed that their ancestors had come to Gondor with that stone, all the way from Númenor.

"That rabble at the back," Sorcha jerked her chin at a large company at the back of the others. These fighters were standing around in straggling rows, disorderly, not keeping any proper ranks at all.  
"They come from Anfalas and Lamedon. None of them are properly equipped for war except Lord Golasgil and his troops."  
I narrowed my eyes and looked at the men. Sorcha was right. Most of the men seemed to bear not swords or spears but axes or pitchforks. Only a group of perhaps fifty men were clad in mail and carried shields and swords.

"To the right, that's the sailors of Ethir. I think about two hundred have come. The others are needed to defend our coasts against the corsairs of Umbar." Sorcha pointed to a company of powerful men with swords and scimitars. But they did not wear any armour and they had no shields.

"Up front, that's Lord Hirluin the Fair and his men."  
I followed her eyes to a large company of warriors standing at the ready. They wore silver mail and green tunics and bore round shields studded with silver nails. Their leader was standing in front of them. But you could not have said that he was handsome. He was bald, and his nose was rather prominent even at this distance. I raised my eyebrows slightly. Fair because of his fairness in dealing with his people, probably, and not because of his looks.

"And next to them are the men of Dol Amroth and Tarnost."  
For the first time Sorcha's calm voice betrayed any emotion. "More than seven hundred fighters and a hundred and fifty knights, all told."  
Her voice was shaking and I could see the glittering of tears in her eyes.  
Prince Imrahil's men were tall and slender, more graceful than most men, almost elvish in appearance. Most of them were dark-haired, tall and strong.  
Suddenly a clarion sounded and from the barracks a company of a hundred knights in full armour galloped to the front. Their leader was Prince Imrahil. One of the very few men with blond hair among the troops of Dol Amroth, he stood out even among these tall and noble men. His long silvery blond hair flowed from beneath his helmet, a silver banner in the wind as he galloped to the front on a great white destrier. Close behind him followed a young man with golden curls bearing a standard on a grey gelding. Gawin, I thought. Was he in any way related to the Prince?  
The banner was blue and gilded in silver; its design was the silver ship and the silver swan of Dol Amroth. As it unfurled in the wind, many hundred voices rose in song.

As if on cue, the great gates opened.

Prince Imrahil turned his horse and rode forward alone out of the gates of Tarnost. After him followed his squire with the colours of Dol Amroth flying in the wind. Then followed the company of his knights.

After the knights marched the soldiers of Dol Amroth and Tarnost, singing as they went.  
Next came Lord Hirluin and his squire with the green and white banner of Pinnath Gelin high in the air. His green-clad warriors followed in orderly ranks, and as their drummer boys struck up the rhythm of their march on their drums, their dark voices joined the song of the soldiers of Dol Amroth.

The sailor-soldiers of Ethir walked behind them not quite that orderly but just as proud.  
After them came the rabble of men from Lamedon and Anfalas but all of them grim faced and determined, singing with fierce voices as they marched.  
Behind them the bowmen of Morthond followed in silence.  
But the three hundred foot soldiers from Ringló Vale behind them were singing again, their heavy boots stamping the rhythm of the song.

Behind them followed the carriages. Laden heavily with supplies and provisions they trundled out of the court, their wheels rumbling on the cobbled stones of the street.

And behind them, mounted on white and grey destriers, followed the rear-guard of fifty knights of Dol Amroth.

Suddenly the last warrior passed through the gates.

For a moment nothing happened.

Then the gates were shut with a solid thump of wood to stone behind the armies of the south-western provinces.

With a shared sigh the onlookers up on the sentry walk of the battlements turned and gathered around the narrow window slits of the battlements. Standing behind Sorcha I could not see much, only a hint of a slowly moving ribbon of green and blue and silver winding down the hill of Tarnost.

At the foot of the hill the armies of the south-western provinces would turn onto the road to Ethring, and from there they would march along the great east road at the feet of the Ered Nimrais, passing through the Lebennin to join the south road at the bridge of Erui.  
And from the bridge of Erui it was not far to Minas Tirith… _and war…_

**ooo**

I turned away from the walls. 

The court below me echoed with silence. Suddenly the courtyard was wide with emptiness. A cloud of dust hung in the air, where only moments ago hundreds of men had been marching and singing.

My mind felt just as empty as the courtyard before me.  
No blessing or prayer would come to mind.  
I felt numb and exhausted.

Slowly, one by one, the other onlookers turned back from the walls as well and climbed down from the sentry walk.  
In their pale faces and wide eyes I saw the same paralysis that I felt.

I walked back to the town of Tarnost with Sorcha and said goodbye to her and her daughter at the market place. Then I walked back to the castle alone. My mind was blank. All I could feel was the cold of the twilight of this dawnless day biting into my bones.  
I met no one when I entered the castle. My steps echoed eerily in the empty staircase.  
I was relieved when I entered the corridor that led to my room and my footfalls were muffled by the carpet on the flagstone floor.  
I opened the door to my room and closed it noiselessly behind me.

The room was exactly as I had left it. My backpack was on the floor next to the bed, on the small table in the corner I could see the yellow parchment and blue seal wax of Prince Imrahil's letter and the window still opened onto the gloom of this dawnless day.

I slumped down on the chair.  
I sat there and stared at the white fabric of the bandages around my wrists.  
There ought to be something to feel or think after watching so many brave men leave for darkness and death, I mused. But there was no coherent thought or emotion left in me.

Finally I got back to my feet and closed the window. I undressed, brushed my teeth again with a wetted brush and curled up in bed.  
I could not think anymore.  
I could not feel anymore.  
But I could not sleep either.


	33. A Lonely Ride

**33. A Lonely Ride**

I must have fallen asleep sometime because when I opened my eyes, a bell tolled six times somewhere in the depths of the castle. Six o'clock in the morning. 

I sat up and carefully got to my feet. Then I sighed with relief. I felt a little stiff but nothing really hurt.

The first thing I did was to go to the window and have a look outside.

It was almost the middle of March. At six o'clock in the morning I should have been looking at a glorious sunrise and should have been greeted by a great choir of birds celebrating springtime.

There was no sun.

There were no voices of birds except the disharmonic cries of jackdaws and crows above the Hills of Tarnost.

Dim twilight covered the land. A cold wind made me shiver as I looked down at the silent castle and town of Tarnost. There seemed to be no one about at all. For a moment I wondered if I was the last living person in the castle, but then a window opened a floor below and a bucket of water was flung out. Obviously there were still other people alive in the castle. But the contrast to the uproar of the leaving army the day before was chilling. With no sun Tarnost was a depressing place. Somehow it reminded me of the movie "The Name of the Rose".

I closed the window again. I would set out for Dol Amroth today. There was really no point in staying here another day. If I was lucky and did not lose my way, I should be able to reach Dol Amroth on the fourteenth… the day the host of the south-western provinces should arrive at Minas Tirith.

Yes, I would do that. I pulled the map of Gondor I had carried with me from Edoras out of my pack and had a look at it. The route looked fairly simple to me. A road led from Tarnost to the Haven of Edhellond on the southern banks of the river Ringló. With Mithril this would be a journey of no more than two days of easy riding. And it was only another day's ride from Edhellond to Dol Amroth, on a road up on the cliffs.

Dol Amroth… the capital of the fief Dol Amroth and home to Prince Imrahil and his family. I would finally meet the woman (or girl?) I was named for. I sighed. I wished I could have met the Prince's family in happier times. Until I had met Sorcha, I had not really thought about what the message I had carried to Tarnost really meant for most families in the south-western provinces.  
I knew that it was not my fault as Sorcha had pointed out. But still… I was not comfortable to be the harbinger of bad news, a _Láthspell_, as Gríma had called Gandalf at Meduseld. And yet I knew that many would remember my name as the name of the messenger that took fathers and husbands and sons away from their families forever.

_I have heard that name, _Sorcha had said, her voice carefully devoid of any emotion.  
_Lothíriel…_

I forced myself out of my dark thoughts. There was no use in succumbing to depression like that. After all, it really was not my fault. It was the fault of that fucking demon in the east. And in a very short time there would be no more fucking demon in the east, I thought furiously. No more Sauron. No more dark times. Once and for all.

**ooo**

I took the message for the Prince's family from the table and carefully stowed it away. Then I rolled up my map and stuffed it back into my pack, too. 

Now. First things first. Washing. Dressing. The clothes I had worn yesterday would still be fine. When I was done, I had a look around the room to see if I had forgotten to pack anything.

I grinned wryly. As if I was on holiday and leaving a hotel I had stayed in. _Hotel Tarnost…  
Holiday in a medieval castle. Fun and games: watching an army leave for battle._

I grimaced. Somehow I was not yet up to jokes like that. Even if they were only in my mind. Gimli would be, however, I thought. And the hobbits, too.

_No, Lothíriel, no more thinking. Breakfast and then up and away._

This time I was not quite as timid as the day before and simply went down to the kitchens. There I met the girl who had served me at breakfast the day before. She was on her feet and bowing and trying to usher me to the breakfast room in a blink.

"Just some breakfast right here in the kitchen will do," I said and would not be budged.  
At least I would not be all alone in the kitchen. "I am only a messenger. There's no need to get bread crumbs into the fine room on my account."

In the end I got my way and had a nice breakfast at the huge square wooden table in the castle's kitchen. The coming and going of the servants soothed my mind. And it was warm and bright in the kitchen, too.

"Do you think that my horse could be made ready?" I asked the girl. "Prince Imrahil asked me to carry another message. I want to get going as soon as may be."  
The girl bobbed a curtsy. "Of course, my lady. I will send Hílo."  
Hílo turned out to be a kitchen boy of perhaps eight or nine years of age. Obviously there was no such thing as compulsory education in Gondor. Perhaps I would bring the matter to Aragorn's attention when he was king. If I was allowed to talk to him when he was king…

I finished a last cup of the coffee-cocoa-whatever-liquid and thanked the plump, red-faced cook for the lovely breakfast. The woman smiled and wished me Godspeed for my errand.

When I came back downstairs later, dressed for riding in my trekking boots and my cloak with my backpack slung over my shoulder, the little boy, Hílo, was back from the stables. He bowed to me and told me - in a sweet high voice thick with brogue - something that sounded like "Th'orse is made ready, Mam. Sh'll ah take you doon?"

I smiled and nodded.

**ooo**

The boy skipped ahead of me totally oblivious of the surrounding gloom. Talk about the resilience of children…

Just when we reached the outer court of Tarnost, a burly groom was leading Mithril out of the stables. The mare neighed when she saw me and strained towards me.  
_She really likes me,_ I thought, and all of a sudden felt tears rise in my eyes. I shook my head briskly. This was neither the time nor the place to get all sentimental!

"Thank you," I told the boy and realized that I did not have any money to give him. Then I remembered the leaf covers of the lembas that I kept as souvenirs in the small outer bag of my backpack. I pulled one out of it. It was still fresh and green, its veins gleaming golden. I gave it to the boy. "This is a leaf from the wood of the Elves. Perhaps you want to keep it as a… lucky charm."

The boy stared at me with his mouth round and open. Then he took the leaf and ran away like a rabbit with the dogs behind it.

The groom grinned. "With that you 'ave made a kid really 'appy, my lady," he told me. "And I wouldn't 'alf mind getting of 'em leaves myself."  
I grinned right back at the man. "If you help me tie that pack securely to the saddle and give me a lift up there," I held up my bandaged wrists to explain why I needed such help, "I think that I may have another one of those leaves left in my pack."  
My pack was fastened to the saddle in a minute and I was up on Mithril's back without tearing my wounds open once again. The groom held a golden mallorn leaf in his hands, an expression of awe on his face.

"Godspeed, my lady!" he called after me.

I stroked Mithril's silky neck.  
"Hey, my sweet," I whispered, enjoying the warmth of Mithril's skin and her easy strength under me. I felt curiously at home and safe on her back.  
"We have another message to deliver."  
Mithril snorted.  
"But this time we can take our time, we don't have to hurry. Or at least not much._ Idhel, _Mithril. Just walk for the time being." I gently nudged her to the gates.

The guards in the towers at the gates had obviously been told that I wanted to leave because the gates opened at once when I rode towards them. Mithril's hooves echoed on the cobbled stone pavement in the tunnel between the walls of the battlements. Then we were out of the gates and on the winding road down the hill.

The gates closed silently behind me.

**ooo**

At the foot of the hill of Tarnost there was a crossroads. One road led away to the north. That was the road I had used coming to Tarnost. The other road led to the west. This road, too, had once been paved with great flagstones, but of that pavement not much was left. Now it was mostly a country lane of hard, bare earth. I did not mind. Mithril would probably prefer the softer ground anyway as long as it did not turn into sludge.

The countryside on the sides of the road was mainly grassy plains with occasional clumps of trees here and there. Towards noon the plains turned into meadows and fields. We were getting close to the river Ringló. At noon we reached the confluence of the rivers Ciril and Ringló with Ringló village.

But I did not cross the bridge into the village. Instead I continued on the banks of the Ringló, following the river in its south-western direction. Even now, in the middle of the day, there was no sun, but only a grey twilight that grew very dark in the east. _Dark days indeed,_ I thought as I rode along.

I tried to cheer myself up with singing, but it did not really work. I am not a good singer at the best of times and the dreary atmosphere of the day seemed to turn any song tried into a dirge.  
Finally I gave up on the singing and began talking to Mithril, practicing my Sindarin.  
Mithril flicked her ears and snorted now and again as if she understood my every word and wanted to comment. And perhaps she did; after all the Mearas are supposed to be bred from Oromë's heavenly horses.

The afternoon waned and the twilight deepened. I realized that for the first time I would be really all alone in the wilderness for the night. Apart from my horse, of course. I tried to ignore the quickening of my heartbeat at that thought and only stopped to make camp for the night when it had grown so dark that I could not see the surface of the road from Mithril's back.

I slid down from her back as carefully as I could. I winced when my ankle struck the saddle. But apart from that I was not really sore. Perhaps I was getting used to riding. I managed to unsaddle Mithril and clean her hooves. Then I rubbed her down the way Éowyn had shown me to do and led her down to the river. Close to the edge of the water was a small sheltered dell. Perfect for the night. I did not feel up to lighting a fire and cooking a meal, so I only ate one of my last remaining lembas and then curled up in my sleeping bag, listening to the soft ripping noises of Mithril grazing nearby.

**ooo**

I woke way before the dawn as I had grown accustomed to during the last months.

Another day without a sun.

I washed with the icy water of the river and drank some of the cold coffee-cocoa-mixture I had brought with me from Tarnost. For breakfast I ate some bread and cheese supplied by the cook of Tarnost Castle. Saddling Mithril was a bit of an adventure, but in the end I managed it. I was sweaty and nervous when I finally mounted, but obviously I had made no really gross mistakes, because the saddle stayed where it should, and Mithril did not snort or toss her head in discomfort but only lipped my fingers softly when I stroked her nose – as if she wanted to tell me that I had done it correctly as far as she was concerned.

On we went, following the Ringló on its way to the sea.

I love the ocean. I was looking forward to see the famous Bay of Belfalas.

At noon I came to the confluence of the Morthond and the Ringló. Both the Morthond and the Ringló are mighty streams so close to the ocean. Their currents are not as strong and cold as they are close to the Ered Nimrais and their mountain springs, but they carry a lot of water down to the sea. I rested on a small hill overlooking the confluence of the rivers. The water stretched wide and greenish grey before me. White gulls wheeled above the water and now and again dipped into it only to appear again seconds later with tiny silvery fish in their beaks.

From the joining of the Morthond and the Ringló to Edhellond was only fifteen miles or so, I mused. The correct designation of the body of water before me was probably 'firth'. Looking at the stony banks of the estuary I could see the marks of high tide as a greenish line of sea weed. Firth of Ringló? Or Firth of Edhellond? There had been no name on the map.  
After half an hour of idly watching the gulls, I mounted again and rode on.

In the evening I reached Edhellond and the sea.

**ooo**

Edhellond is a white city. Its elvish origins are obvious for even the most casual visitor. Edhellond is a white city as the harbour towns in the Aegean Sea are white cities, but it is elegant and ethereal, built in the flowing and vaguely art-nouveau style adored by the elves.

Even in the dreary gloom of these dark days, it was beautiful.

But it was very quiet and almost deserted. There were not many people out in the streets and the few that were there, were old people, women and children. I realized that it was very probable that I had seen many husbands and fathers of the city of Edhellond in Tarnost.

I was in a country that was at war. This whole world was at war.

I decided that I would try and find an inn for the night. An inn!  
I felt hot and cold with shock as I realized that I had no coins of Gondorian currency. How should I pay for a room and a meal?  
I stared down at my hands clutching Mithril's reins. I was tired. And I was hungry!  
And I had no money!

No money… suddenly a thought stirred in my mind. I still had some Euro coins. Perhaps I could persuade an innkeeper to accept them as a curiosity? Do some haggling? Wasn't that how it was supposed to work here?

I decided to give it a try.

And… I was lucky!

With the city emptied of its men and trade diminished by the war in the east, the first innkeeper whom I tried to convince of the value of my strange coins,simply told me to hand over five coins and lead my horse into the stable at the back of the inn.  
I did not have to think twice.

I led Mithril into one of the empty stalls and leaned against her. I sighed, willing my pounding heart to slow down. I was simply not used to the fact that there was neither a fixed price for anything in Middle-earth nor a fixed currency or exchange-rate. If you wanted something and you did not have the coin of Gondor or Rohan, you made an offer of whatever you happened to have in the way of valuables and haggled for it. I knew that. I had seen others do it. But I was still not used to do it myself and somehow I felt as if I had broken some law by offering Euro coins to the innkeeper.

Hay for Mithril, a bed for the night and something to eat, that's the important thing. And as there are no other Euro coins in Middle-earth except the ones that I still had hidden away in my backpack, it was not even a bad deal for the innkeeper. I had paid him with a real rarity, after all.

The room was tiny, but clean. A straw mattress and a woollen blanket and a table with a chipped ewer and blue washing bowl. Perfect for one night, even if "sleep tight" was not really applicable to the way the ropes gave out under me.

Dinner was a huge bowl of black mussels in a sauce of white wine, garlic and parsley with fresh brown bread. It reminded me of holidays spent in France and Italy. Another life. Another world. After dinner I had another cup of the coffee/cocoa thingy, which was called _'Tírithel_', a word of Sindarin origin if I did not miss my guess. _'Tír_' is Sindarin and means 'to wake, to look for, to guard'. How very aptly put, I thought, as I felt my weariness dissipating with the warmth of the hot caffeinated beverage spreading through my body.

As I was not yet tired enough to go to bed, I got my cloak from my room and decided to go for a walk around the harbour. It was around nine o'clock and the night was deep and dark. But it was not as bad as the twilight of the day. After all, you expect the night to be dark.

Around the harbour there were lanterns lit at regular intervals. I walked up to one of them and peered up at it. It was not gas. Probably oil lamps. Kindled and extinguished by a night watchman probably.

The harbour was quiet and full of ships, small fishing crafts most of them, tied up securely with the fishers gone… to the East and to war.

But in front of the harbour's entrance I could see the outline of a big sailing ship, and I remembered what Sorcha had told me about the soldier-sailors of Ethir, that only a few men could be spared, because the coasts had to be defended against the corsairs.  
I shuddered. But then I remembered: Aragorn would defeat the corsairs at Pelargir. At least if the appendices of the books turned out to be true, too.

I remained at the harbour for a while longer, growing calm and tired as I watched the gentle inky waves in the harbour basin lapping against the quay and the regular blinking of the two lighthouses at the edge of the harbour.

At last I turned around and walked slowly back to the inn.

The stories I had read on earth were becoming hazy and distant, I pondered. It was getting more and more difficult to remember any details. The details of what really happened on the quest had wiped out my memories of the quest as it was in the books. And of the days to come I only remembered pages filled with battle and death and only a pinprick of hope: a small sparkle of light in the darkness of Mordor far away in the east. _Mordor… Frodo and Sam would be in Mordor by now,_ I thought. _With Gollum. And the ring. Hopefully. _

As I slipped under the covers, my thoughts went back to the hobbits and then to my other friends, especially to Éowyn who was on the way to Minas Tirith, but also to Aragorn and the Grey Company who were perhaps even now fighting the corsairs at Pelargir… and Gandalf and Pippin who were at Minas Tirith, waiting for the attack.

I wanted to pray for my friends then, I wanted to pray to God and to Eru and ask the Valar and all my earthly saints for their blessing, but the words would not come.

Finally I closed my eyes and only whispered,_ please, please, please…_

**ooo**

The next day I rose early. Breakfast was a large mug of Tírithel and a bun with honey.

I saddled Mithril, feeling accomplished that I was not nervous about doing it right anymore. I mounted easily this time. With a smile I realized that I felt pretty at home on Mithril's back by now.

I walked her past the harbour and then along the main road.

As we left the last houses behind us, the pavement gave way to a broad and well-maintained lane that could still be used easily by carriages. But if there had been any pavement on the surface of the road, today there was nothing left of it at all.

In a way, I mused, the situation in Middle-earth was a bit as it must have been in Europe when the Roman empire of the Ancient World passed away and the dark ages came. The Noldor and the Númenoreans had brought civilization to Middle-earth, architecture and paved roads, probably bathing houses and the art of writing. But the bloom of the elvish realms had long since faded and the splendour of the Gondorian kingdom of old was but a memory.

The high tide and low tide of history, rising and falling with the passage of millennia…

_The incursions of orcs and dark lords and demons were of course not exactly helpful to the development of human civilization, _I thought. _Perhaps I would live to see better days in the years to come._

The road wound along the edge of the cliffs. Now and again I had a breathtaking view of almost sheer formations of cliff rock with the waves crashing against the rocks at their feet in swirls of dark water and white foam. Of the sea or the lands around me I could not see very much. Again there was no sun in the sky, but only dark grey clouds and a sickly greenish glow around an unmoving, impenetrable blackness in the east. Only at the far western horizon there seemed to be a small ribbon of golden light. _The West…  
And in the West is Aman, the Blessed,_ I mused,_ the home of the elves._  
Perhaps that was the light. Though how I would be able to see the light of heaven beyond this world at the edge of the earthly ocean was beyond me.  
Nevertheless it lifted my heart.

Around noon I grew tired and thirsty, so I decided to have a break. After all, I had not really far to ride anymore. I had time to stop and relax for a bit. I dismounted and left the road, looking for a place suitable for a picnic.

What I found was… on earth I would have said: a holy spring. It was a shrine built around a spring in a little dell surrounded by thickets of gorse and heather. The shrine was made of smooth grey stone and it held a basin filled with clear, cool drinking water that tasted slightly of earth.

A spout in the form of an ivy leaf was inserted at the top of the basin, and from there the water dripped in a small rivulet down into a small channel of stone and then disappeared again into the ground. The roof of the shrine was fashioned in a pointed gable and covered in dark grey slates. In the tympanum the design of a sailing ship and a star were engraved with elvish runes curling around it. The runes were fading but still clearly visible.

After I had watered Mithril and eaten a quick lunch of cheese, dried fruit and brown bread, I knelt down in front of the shrine. I stared at the runes and tried to remember what Glorfindel had taught me about elvish runes.

It took me a long time to figure out the individual words because the language that was used in the inscription was Quenya, not Sindarin, and I knew only a little about this elvish "Latin".  
Finally I thought I had figured out what they meant. This is what I thought was inscribed above the spring:

_"Mi oro-mardi Andúne pella  
Vardo nu luini tellumar, yassen tintilar i eleni  
óma-ryo lírinen aire-tário.  
Sí man i yulma nin en-quant-uva?  
Merale sa hiruvalye Valimar ar sa yulmarilya quatina."_

However my knowledge of Quenya was not sufficient to translate it, although some of the words seemed strangely familiar.

Some kind of elvish blessing, no doubt.

I refilled my bottle with water from the spring. Then held my cupped hands under the spout and let them fill up with that clear water. I washed my hands and face and sprinkled a few drops on the tympanum, as I would have done at a holy spring on earth, a gesture of gratefulness to forgotten gods.

Then I mounted Mithril and rode on along the cliffs.

**ooo**

It was early in the evening when I reached the peninsula of Dol Amroth. The castle and town of Dol Amroth were situated in the north of the peninsula, above the Bay of Cobas. The rocks of the cliffs were red, orange and yellow. The castle and the battlements around the town were built from this red rock. As I rode towards the gates, I reflected that the Castle of Dol Amroth had to look splendid in a real sunset. Probably like great red ruby, with a red sun setting behind it. But today it only gave the grey twilight of the low clouds a sickly reddish hue.

The land narrowed down to a promontory towards the walls of Dol Amroth, until there were only a few feet of rock grown with heather at the sides of the road. Then even that bit of ground dropped away into a deep gorge. A drawbridge led across a deep gorge to the gates of the city of Dol Amroth. The gates were closed.

I nudged Mithril onto the bridge and called up to the small towers at the sides of the gate.  
"Hello there?! My name is Lothíriel. I come from Tarnost with a message of Prince Imrahil to his family!"  
As I had expected, the rough voice of a guard answered. "Show the message and the seal, and we will let you pass."

I turned in the saddle, hoping that I would manage to get the envelope out of my backpack without letting the message fall into the gorge or falling down into that gorge myself.  
After a few moments of nervous fiddling, I got hold of the envelope and managed to pry it out of the backpack without mishap. The seal was undamaged and showed very clearly the blue colour of the coat of arms of Dol Amroth.  
I held it up in front of me.

"Well, this looks indeed like the Prince's seal. We will open the gates."

The gates swung open, creaking slightly at the hinges.  
I walked Mithril through the gates.  
The gates of Dol Amroth were still shut by mere man power. One guard in the blue uniform of Dol Amroth stepped up to me; two others closed the gates behind me, securing them with a heavy beam thrust into the stone at the sides of the gates.

I dismounted, taking Mithril's reins in my right hand, the message in my left.  
I smiled at the guard. "Nice to meet you. I am Lothíriel, messenger at large."  
He did not smile back, only stared at me with a strange expression on his face. _Okay, no more jokes until we get to know each other a little better._

"Welcome, my lady," the guard said finally. The guard was an older man with grey hair and a dark beard.  
"I would like to give this message to the Prince's family as soon as possible," I went on. "Perhaps if someone could take care of my horse?"  
The guard nodded. "Ewan," he turned to one of the other two guards. "See to it."

Ewan was no more than a boy of perhaps thirteen, tall and thin with growing too quickly. Ewan bowed to me. I asked Mithril to go with him. The horse tossed her head indignantly but allowed herself to be led away.

Then the old guard turned back to me. "If you will follow, I will take you to the castle."

Dol Amroth consisted really of three parts.

There was the town of Dol Amroth up on the cliffs of a promontory off the peninsula of Dol Amroth, there was the castle of Dol Amroth that was situated on a second, separate promontory behind the one on which the town had been built and there was the harbour of Dol Amroth at the foot of the cliffs with the fishing village of Dol Amroth.

The Castle of Dol Amroth was reached by a second drawbridge. As I looked down over the sides of the drawbridge I experienced the dizzying sensation of vertigo. Almost a hundred feet below, the rocky gorge was only a few feet wide and at each side the waves crashed against the rocks with a roar of wild water. From the tide marks in the gorge I guessed that the gorge was flooded completely on a regular basis. _Not much to fear from corsairs, up here,_ I thought as I walked behind the guard towards the castle.

The castle, built of the same red stone as the battlements was a good deal smaller than Tarnost. Nevertheless it was still impressive. At the very edge of the cliff behind the castle, I glimpsed the outline of a round tower. Probably a donjon, the remains of the first attempt to build a fortified settlement up here. Now it served as a lighthouse. Not that the light helped much in the grey twilight of the day.

A servant in blue livery opened the doors of the castle and bowed to us.  
"A message for her ladyship," the guard told the servant. The servant inclined his head politely.  
"If you will step into the hall, I will send word to the lady at once."  
The guard nodded and led me to an archway to the right of the entrance hall. At the end of a short corridor was a large door made of black wood. The guard opened the door and waited for me to pass him by.

The great hall of the Castle of Dol Amroth – just like the rest of the castle – was built of the beautiful red stone of the surrounding cliffs. The masonry was deceptively simple and faintly Romanesque in style. High Doric columns supported a ceiling of dark wood. The western wall sported four large windows with round arcs and pure, flowing framework. At the inner wall were two great fire places. The centre of the room was covered with a thick red carpet. On the carpet was a long table made of dark wood with many straight backed chairs. I decided that I liked the style.

In front of the windows, groups of arm-chairs and low tables were arranged.

"If you would like to sit down, my lady. The lady will be here shortly," the guard told me.  
"No, thank you. I have been in the saddle all day, it's good to stretch my legs finally," I answered politely, walking along the windows. The glass of the windows was thick so that it did not offer a really clear view of the sea and the coastline of the Bay of Cobas. But nevertheless it was a magnificent view.

On earth Dol Amroth would have made a smashing hotel.

From far away the sound of the waves drifted up to us, a soothing, rushing sound.  
For the first time in days I felt a part of the tension drain out of me.  
I had made it. In a few moments the message would be delivered and I would be free.  
_Free to do what? Free to wait until the war would be over…  
And then?_  
I sighed softly. I had no idea. _If only the war was already over…_


	34. Lothíriel – What’s in a Name – Part 2

**A/N:** According to the notes about the family of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth as they are presented in "The History of Middle-earth", the "real" Lothíriel was the youngest daughter of the Prince and not Elphir's twin sister. The change from youngest daughter to twin sister was necessary to accommodate the younger brothers that I wanted to have in my story to make it easier for "my" Lothy to fit into the family.

* * *

**oooOooo**

**34. Lothíriel – What's in a Name (Part 2)**

The guard remained right in front of the door, standing stiff and still as guards do but watching me out of the corners of his eyes.

Then the door opened and he quickly bent over in a deep bow.

I bowed, too. When I straightened up again, I found myself face to face with a middle-aged woman. She was tall and slender as all of the people of Belfalas seem to be and she wore a gown of a heavy dark blue fabric that touched the floor with its seam. Her hair was black and gathered at the nape of her neck in a silvery net. Her forehead was high and clear, but a deep widow's peak gave her face an impish impression that made her look years younger than her actual age – of forty-nine as I learned later. But for now she did not smile and her grey eyes were dark with worry.

"A message," she said her voice almost toneless. "You have a message from my lord?"

"Yes, my lady. My name is Lothíriel," I hesitated. Had she widened her eyes at hearing my name? Had her already white cheeks paled even more? Or had I imagined that only? I was not sure and so I continued, "I was sent with a summons to the Prince Imrahil."

"A summons? By whom? And where?" the lady asked impatiently. "I think it's best we sit down and you tell me the whole story. Thanks, Anmir, that will be all. Please tell Enho to send us some refreshments."

The guard, dismissed, bowed again and left the room.

The lady turned to me. "Please, tell me – what are the news from Tarnost? I am eager to hear any news of my lord and to receive his message. It has been weeks since the last messeage arrived."

"The message is this," I said inclining my head in a polite gesture. Then I offered her the thick envelope sealed in blue. A sigh escaped the lady's lips. It was obvious that she loved her lord very much and worried about him greatly. Her hands trembled as she clutched the message.

She led the way to the windows and gestured me to one of the armchairs. She slumped down in another chair, still holding the envelope tightly.

"Please… Lothíriël, tell me, what message was it that took you to Tarnost?"

"I was sent by Gandalf the wizard. War is at hand and your husband and the armies of the south-western provinces are needed in Minas Tirith. I bore the summons to Tarnost that asked them to make for Minas Tirith at once and be there on the fourteenth at the latest."

"But that is today!" the lady gasped.

"It is believed that the Enemy will attack soon, perhaps even today or tomorrow. Every man is needed at Minas Tirith," I replied. "I wish I could give you better news."

"No," she said. "No, it… we expected it. In fact, we – that is – my husband – he expected to ride into battle much earlier this year. But when there was no message from the steward, from the Lord Denethor, I… hoped against hope… But how do you come to be here, now, with this letter?"

I shrugged. "I am not a warrior and I was wounded in February. The wounds are not yet healed. And I am neither wise in the art of warfare nor skilful in the ways of healing… so Prince Imrahil asked if I would take a message to his family. To you. There was nothing else I could do to help. I was glad to be of a little assistance."

"Wounded? Are you alright now? Should I send for our healer?" the lady asked in a concerned voice, although I could see that she was fingering the seal impatiently.

"No, I am fine, my lady. I guess you will want to be alone to read the message." I paused. "Should I wait outside for a bit? Or perhaps, if you have a room for me, if I may stay for the night…"

"If I have a room for you! Stay for the night!" the lady interrupted me, her eyes blazing. "What do you take me for? The times may be evil indeed when no man can be spared to carry a message from Tarnost to Dol Amroth, but they are not yet that evil that a young woman would be sent away from this house in the middle of the night – that is, if you want to stay – or do you have family nearby who are waiting for you?"

She looked at me inquiringly.

Suddenly I felt a lump in my throat. I had to wait a moment before I was sure that my voice was firm. "I have no family, my lady. And with the war at hand… to be honest, I don't have anywhere to go."

"No family at all?" The lady looked at me, and her voice was warm with pity.

"No. There's only me. But that's alright," I said, though at the moment I did not really feel anything like alright. Perhaps because the lady was so very worried and was so obviously in love with her husband… It's kind of hard to see that when you are, well, all alone.

Luckily the door to the hall opened that very moment and an old servant with very white hair entered, carrying a tray with steaming mugs and a plate of small cakes.

_Tírithel!_ I inhaled the fragrance of the coffee-cocoa-mixture gratefully. I was beginning to feel tired from the day's ride and I had the feeling that the Lady Míriël would want to know more about how I had come to be a messenger for Gandalf before the night was over.

"But indeed, would you mind very much, Lothíriël, if I left you for a bit? For you are right, I would like to be alone to read the letter. I will only be across the hall, the second door to the right, in the library. If you need anything…?" The lady asked, accepting my answer to her earlier question for the moment. But only for the moment, I was sure. The Lady Míriël seemed to be just as smart and perceptive as her husband.

"Of course, my lady," I told her, feeling quite proud of myself that I was managing the 'my lady' and 'my lord' thing much better now.

"Thank you," she smiled at me. "If you will excuse me. I will be back as soon as possible."

With a rustle of skirts she was gone.

I picked up my mug of Tírithel and felt gratefully how the warmth of the hot liquid spread through the porcelain into my hands. Ahh… but this was good. After I had taken a few swallows I tried one of the cakes. It was a spice cake, tasting of cinnamon and nutmeg and honey. Pure bliss! I did not like really sweet stuff, but 'Lebkuchen' and spice cakes were another matter.

A short time later the door of the great hall opened again and the white haired servant, probably the Enho the Lady had mentioned, returned. He placed a three-branched candle-stick on the table and lit the candles. Than he set about to light a great log fire in the fireplace. Shortly the hall was filled with the bright light of flickering flames and growing comfortably warm.

When the servant was content that the fire was burning well, he turned to me and indicated another polite bow. "Is there anything else I could get you, my lady?"

"No, thank you, Enho – is that correct?" I replied, my voice a little shaky as I asked his name. I was still feeling strange about servants.

"Yes, I am Enho, my lady. If that is all?" He nodded to me and withdrew with the dignity of a king.

With the hall warm and bright, something hot to drink and something nice to eat, I soon felt relaxed and comfortable. Comfortable enough to wonder about the other Lothíriel.

Perhaps I would meet her later…

But before I could give the matter much more thought, the doors of the hall were thrust open and two boys came running into the hall at break-neck speed. Realizing that they were not alone almost made them topple over one another in surprise. They seemed to be about ten and five years old. The older boy had the black hair of the Lady Míriël but the light eyes of Prince Imrahil. The younger boy had light brown hair and dark grey eyes. Both were slender with their movements graceful when they were not stumbling into one another. There was no doubt in my mind at all about who they were. These had to be two of Prince Imrahil's sons. The likeness was simply too evident for any other explanation.

Getting over their surprise, they bowed to me like perfect little gentlemen.

"We did not know that we have visitors, my lady, or we would never have… so clumsily –" the older boy began.

"I wasn't clumsy," the younger interrupted.

"Shh," his brother hissed. "Remember what father said!"

The younger raised his delicately slanted eyebrows. _"Always be polite…"_ Then he realized that he had said that out loud and blushed. "Excuse me, my lady."

"No problem. My name is Lothíriel, and who are you?" I had to smile. I had never known that boys of that age could be so cute.

Again there was this strange hesitation at my name. Now I was sure that I had not imagined it.

"My name is Númendil," the older boy said and bowed to me.

"I am Meluir," the younger added and the way he said his name made it obvious that he would have preferred another name.

I bit down on my lip not to laugh out loud or to say something like 'how sweet', because that was just what _'meluir_' meant in Sindarin: sweet one, or cute one. Oh, parents… what you do to your children with the names you choose. Not for the first time I wondered how my life would have turned out, had my mother called me Anna or Simone or any other ordinary name.

"You could shorten it," I suggested, trying valiantly not to grin. "Mel sounds very manly and pretty cool, doesn't it?"

"Not much better," the boy answered, shrugging – of course; in Sindarin _'mell'_ means 'loving, kind'. And no ruggedly handsome and heroic Mel Gibson in Middle-earth.

"I am used to it by now," he went on, sounding like the epitome of long-suffering patience. "It's because they did not expect to have another child. And Father says I can choose a name for my own, when I grow up."

His face brightened when he thought about that. His older brother wisely kept silent.

Then the younger boy's expression turned into one of curiosity. "Where do you come from? And what are you doing here? And how long will you stay? And…"

"Meluir, you know it is not polite to ask so many questions at once," the amused voice of the Lady Míriël interrupted, who had entered unnoticed.

The small boy hung his head and blushed at this reprimand.

"No, really, it's alright," I said hurriedly. "I don't mind."

That little boy **was** cute.

"Nevertheless, he has to learn his manners," the lady commented but in a kind voice. I noticed a certain huskiness to her voice and as I looked at her, I realized that she had cried.

"Sit down with us, boys. One spice cake each," she ordered and sat back down in the chair across from me. The boys took a chair on either side of me.

The lady put the letter carefully on the table before us and took a spice cake for herself.

Pointing at the letter she explained to her sons.

"The Lady Lothíriël has brought a letter from your father."

"Where is he? What is happening? When will he come home?" Again it was the younger son who was full of questions, whereas the face of his older brother clouded over with silent worry. I was relieved when their mother answered in a calm and soothing voice.

"Your father is well. He is in Minas Tirith. He bids me to tell you that he loves you very much and that he is looking forward to coming home to us."

Númendil looked at his mother, his small face pale and serious. "Is it the War, Mother? Has the War begun?"

I could hear the capital 'W'. With his ten or eleven years Númendil knew what was happening in the world. Had he been only two or three years older he would be riding to Minas Tirith now, like Gawin, a bright young squire. I shuddered.

His mother looked tired and for a moment her carefully maintained façade vanished, showing her own anxiety. But then she smiled at her sons, projecting reassurance. Nevertheless she answered the question honestly, "Yes. The war has begun. But you father knows how to fight. He will come back."

But her eyes added clearly a qualification to that last sentence. _I hope._

**ooo**

When the boys had finished their cakes, Míriël sent them off to wash their hands before dinner. Dinner would be served in the kitchen. 

"We have so few people left at the castle that it's a waste of fire wood to have a real dinner. Most of the time we eat in the kitchen these days… all who are left of the household." She smiled at me, a weary, worried smile. "Thank you for giving me the time to read the letter in peace."

"No problem, my lady," I said, feeling my cheeks grow hot – and then hotter, as I realized that 'no problem' was probably not really ladylike.

But the lady did not seem to have noticed anything.

"Would you mind telling me about your journey?" The way she said 'journey' implied that she wanted to know everything.

I realized that I would not mind telling someone about the last months. Actually, I thought, it would feel good to talk to someone about… things. And Lady Míriël – perhaps because she was used to it as a mother of two lively sons (and where was the other Lothíriel?) – put me at ease. She seemed to be soothing and understanding and I thought that she would not be judgmental listening to my story like Éowyn, for example. And although it was not that I had not liked talking with Arwen, or Gily or even the Lady Galadriel, but, well, I was human, and they were not. That made simple talking… difficult.

"But it's a very long story," I said.

"In that case we should go and have dinner before you start. Or are you too tired, and we shall talk tomorrow?" the lady asked.

"No, no, that's alright. I don't have to go anywhere tomorrow, after all, so I can sleep in late, if I may."

"Of course you may." She smiled at me and her smile had a strange, wistful quality.

But before I could ask any nosy questions of my own, the lady rose to her feet and led me down into the large, noisy kitchen.

For all that there were only a handful of old people and young girls left at Castle Dol Amroth, the household was as lively and cheerful as possible in such times. The food was simple but well prepared and fresh. A stew of fish and mussels, and chocolate fudge for dessert.

I did not talk during dinner but watched the other people of the household and listened.

Everyone had been told about the message and the war. Everyone had someone they loved going to war. Father, uncle, brother, husband, son… In my mind a list of relatives and loved ones unfolded… relatives and loved ones that every one of those gathered in this kitchen tonight could lose to Sauron's cruelty.

They did not talk about that, however. They talked about their daily life and about things that reminded them of their loved ones, stories, memories, funny incidents. But it was there, that knowledge. It was there in what was not said. It was there in the obvious absence of husbands and young men.

I should be grateful that I had no family here that I could lose to Sauron.

And my friends would make it out of it alive.

They would.

They had to.

It was in the stories, after all.

After dinner Lady Míriël excused herself for half an hour to tug her sons into their respective beds. I went back to the great hall, curled up in one of the armchairs with a cup of mulled cider and waited. I had not imagined that noble ladies did that. Kissing their kid goodnight, I mean. Perhaps it was the war… but somehow I thought that Lady Míriël had always done these things herself and always would.

Once again, I realized how little I actually knew of the society and culture of Gondor, of the societies and cultures of all of Middle-earth! I was clinging to the memories of a single story, of a myth, a legend – something that was oddly removed from the realities of every day life.

This train of thought made me ponder once again what I had done with my knowledge. The knowledge – it had changed things. But the change was so subtle, barely noticeable. Had it been worth it?

Why is it that all of us feel this need to be… important, to play a meaningful part?

I sighed. If everything turned out alright, I would be content to be nothing, not at all important and only Lothíriel for the rest of my life, I promised to myself. I would never question my presence in this story again._ Only, please, Eru, Valar, whatever, make my friends be alright. Let Middle-earth be saved and this ugly, fucking demon in the east be squashed into a pulp!_

_And concerning the war… I will stay out of it. I have promised. I will do as Gandalf has told me to._

I shuddered at the thought of what havoc a 'subtle' change in a war could wreak. No, I would keep well away from Minas Tirith and leave the fighting and the glory to Éowyn. If only nothing happens to her! _If only nothing happens to her!_

Suddenly I remembered the warm, dark eyes of her brother. _If only nothing happens to him…_

**ooo**

The door of the great hall opened and Prince Imrahil's wife entered. Again she settled down in the armchair across the table from me. Then she poured herself a cup of mulled cider and sighed. 

"One story a piece," she told me. "I am afraid my sons are quite pampered."

I smiled. No, that had not been my impression. "I rather think your sons are loved."

The lady sighed. "Yes, they are. – But please, tell me… Lothíriel, how it is that a young woman was chosen to carry such dangerous messages in times of war."

I pursed my lips, considering for a moment if it was very impolite to answer a question with a question. In the end I opted for the question.

"My lady, if you don't mind I would like to ask a question of my own first."

She shrugged. "Of course you may. But I cannot promise that I know the answer."

"My name, my lady," I blurted out. "Everyone seems to jump a bit when I speak my name. Why is that?" I had wanted to ask, 'Don't you have a daughter called Lothíriel?' A moment later I was glad that I had not.

She looked at me and smiled a sad smile and her eyes were very dark.

"That is easily explained," she said and her voice was husky. "We are blessed with sons, my husband and I. Our three older sons, Elphir, Erchirion and Amrothos, ride to war with their father; Númendil and Meluir are here with me. But we also had a daughter once, the twin sister of Elphir. It was deemed a sign of luck and divine blessing that our firstborn were twins, born only a year after our marriage, too. We called our daughter Lothíriel and we were very happy. Very young and very happy. But she died. The winter of her first year was very cold and there was sickness. Many children and many old people died that winter."

There were sudden tears in her eyes. She smiled at me through the tears. "Most of the time my daughter is only the memory of a smile that was never smiled, the thought of a dance I was never allowed to see, but… to hear her name after so many years… and to see a young woman… so close to her age, had she lived… I think she would be a few years older than you are, but still… The people of Dol Amroth know about our Lothíriel, of course; and you may not believe it, but fisher folk and sailors are the most romantic people. All of them know that my husband and I wed for love and that the child of our love was our little daughter, sweet little blossom child… asleep in the cold earth these many years… They even tell tales about us…"

She trailed off and then dashed impatiently at her eyes with the backs of her hands. She exhaled deeply and continued in a calm voice, "That is why they have reacted so strangely to your name. Don't worry about it."

"I am so sorry, my lady," I whispered. And I was. I knew from history lessons of another life and another world just how many children died before the age of ten in medieval societies.

Hell, you did not even have to think of history. In the year 2004 on earth every minute a woman died trying to give birth in the developing countries. And most of the time the child did not survive either. Statistical fact. One woman every minute. One child every minute.

But I had been looking forward to meeting the girl – the woman – I was named for. And now, to know that she was dead, that she never grew up, that she never walked and danced and sang… Somehow I felt as if one of the pillars that supported my world had collapsed.

Even as a child I had always felt comforted by the knowledge that somewhere there was another girl with my name, in a world of wizards and bravery. When I had occasion to be brave myself, such occasion as arises during childhood – going to the dentist or sitting a test at school – I always thought of this other Lothíriel. What would she do? How would she act? And she was always brave and smart, the better twin, my imagined sister. And now I knew that she had lived indeed, that she had breathed and laughed and cried. But only for a year. _Only for a year._

"Thank you," the Lady Míriël said finally. "But please, now tell me of yourself. How is it that you are all alone and running such dangerous errands in these darkening days?"

_Gandalf,_ I thought. _Gandalf, what the hell shall I tell her?_

"Well, I come from far away. Actually, not from Arda at all."

"From beyond the seas?"

I paused and thought about this for a moment. "You could say that. Anyway, Gandalf, the wizard, he travelled far and wide gathering information that might help fighting the Enemy. And in my world," _Shit._ I should never have opened my mouth. "Ahem, where I come from, there is… there exists some lore about Arda, Middle-earth and… the Enemy and… certain things. And I was not happy with my life. I always wanted to go away, to come to Middle-earth. And well, I had just decided that the way my life was going, ahem, that… it was not really my life at all, that I wanted to change my life, and then I met Gandalf. And he offered to take me to Middle-earth. He hoped I could help with the lore of my world. That's how I came to travel with Aragorn and… some others from the Shire to Rivendell and from Rivendell to… Rohan and then no man could be spared to take a message to Prince Imrahil, and so I volunteered. And when your husband asked me to carry another message, well, I had promised Gandalf and Aragorn that I would stay away from the war, so I came here. And that is more or less what happened."

Míriël looked at me with her delicately slanted eyebrows raised in slightly mocking disbelief. _That's where Mel gets it from,_ I thought.

"Do I assume correctly that you are not sure about what you may or may not tell me?" the lady asked me point-blank.

I stared at her for a moment, and then I had to grin in spite of myself and raised my hands in defeat. "You may, my lady. But there are some aspects of my story that I am not really sure of even if I was certain that I might tell them."

Why Gandalf did bring me to Middle-earth, for example. If the difference I made was worth the trouble. After all, Boromir was dead. And they could have found another messenger if they had been forced to. Perhaps some day I would have the chance to ask Gandalf about all of this. And until then I would have to live my life just as I had always lived it, not knowing if my existence meant anything at all.

Just like on earth. No. Not at all like on earth. An unexpected thought struck me. There was one important difference to my life on earth. This life, this world, I had chosen for myself. I was not here by chance. I had **chosen** to come here.

"There will always be aspects of our lives that remain uncertain," Míriël said, interrupting my musings. "You will know that when you have reached my age."

I smiled at her, feeling suddenly quite at ease – if not absolutely convinced. "I guess you are right. But one thing I am most certain of. I am happy that I am here, in Middle-earth, and I don't want to be anywhere else ever again."

**ooo**

I don't know if it was my name, the will of Eru, chance or only a wizard's meddling that shaped my life. 

I still don't know. Probably I will never know until I reach Eru's halls.

But I knew then that I was home and whatever place I would find in Middle-earth, I would be happy and content with it.

I was truly home. I was where I belonged.


	35. Memories and Fear

**35. Memories and Fear**

I woke to yet another dark day.  
Dark times, dark ages, dark days. Sauron was taking these expressions literally and I was beginning to feel fed up with this gloom.

I woke in a broad, comfortable bed in a beautiful guest room with a view across the sea to the west that would have been magnificent without Sauron's gloom taking away the colours of spring and the light of the sun.  
For once I had managed to sleep late. A bright bell tolled ten times from somewhere in the castle as I sat up in the bed and rubbed at my eyes. I felt wide awake and rested.  
And my stomach grumbled in a very un-ladylike manner.

I got to my feet and made for ewer and washing bowl. By now I was used to washing this way. It's definitely an art to get clean with an ewer and a washing bowl, especially without leaving most of the water on the floor. Anyway, in the end I felt reasonably clean and I was quite proud of myself when I saw that I had managed not to splash all of the water onto the floor.

I rummaged in my backpack for clean clothes. In the end I chose the green Rohirric clothes Éowyn had given to me, although they were more than a bit crumpled. But they were clean and they did not smell quite as strongly of horse as the jeans I had been wearing on the journey to Dol Amroth.

And I wanted to save the elvish clothes for an occasion.

When I was ready to go in search for breakfast, someone knocked at my door.

"Come in," I called and was amused to see Mel and Númendil peering cautiously around the door, their faces filled with curiosity.  
When they saw that I was up and dressed, they looked relieved but no less curious.  
"Mama sends us to ask if you would like your breakfast up here or down in the kitchen,"  
Númendil inquired politely.  
"I'll come down, thank you. If you could show me the way? This castle is pretty big. I could easily get lost," I asked, trying to remember how and when I had found my room yesterday. Lady Míriël and I had talked for hours after dinner. At some point of the evening the fatigue of the journey had caught up with me, and there my memory blurred.

"Yes, it is really a great Castle!" Mel agreed his eyes full of pride. "It's the only castle in Gondor that was never taken by any enemies! It's the greatest and safest castle ever. We will show you the way and everything else, the towers and the dungeons and, just everything!" Blushing, Mel added in a small voice, "My lady."  
"You can call me Lothíriel, or Lothy. That's easier to say than 'my lady'," I told them. I was still uncomfortable with being called 'my lady' especially by kids!  
"Thank you, my… Lothíriel. That is an honour!" Númendil said and bowed to me.  
I inclined my head in a hopefully polite way and smiled at the boys. Mel would have no problems to progress from 'Lothíriel' to 'Lothy', I guessed. Without any more bowing, pomp and circumstance.

I was correct. By the time we were down at ground level and entering the kitchen, Mel was hanging on my hand, calling me 'Lothy' and trying to persuade me to let him ride on Mithril.  
Although it was not even noon, the boys had heard of my magnificent horse and had gone to take a look at it.

Lady Míriël was in the kitchen, poring over the ledgers with the white haired butler and "Haushofmeister" or major domo called Enho. When I entered the kitchen with her sons, she raised her head and smiled at me. "Good morning, Lothíriel."

Before I had gone to bed, she had made me promise to call her Míriël. Now I discovered that, although I still felt strange about addressing people with things like 'my lady' or whatever, and even stranger when addressed like that myself, in this case I felt just as uncomfortable using the first name. Or rather personal name. In Middle-earth only the Hobbits seemed to have surnames.  
"Good morning, Míriël," I said, feeling awkward and smiled, too. "Sorry that I am such a sleepy-head."  
"That's alright; your journey was long and exhausting. I told you to sleep as long as you wanted."  
"I did, thank you."  
"My lady." A young maid-servant appeared at my side with a tray stacked with plates and cups. "Do you want to take your breakfast here or in the hall?"  
I looked at the children. Mel mouthed 'here', shaking his head wildly – indicating that the children would not be allowed to join me if I ate in the hall.  
"The kitchen will be just fine," I said, "if there's a corner where I would not be in anyone's way."

We ended up at the window side of the large square wooden table where we had dinner the evening before. The table was so huge that on the other side of the table the dough for new bread could be prepared without getting even a speck of flour into our cups of tírithel while I was eating my breakfast. The boys climbed on chairs on either side of me, keeping me company with a large cup of tírithel each. Breakfast was more or less a real English breakfast. It would have made any hobbit happy. I managed to eat a bowl of porridge with fresh fruit and bacon and eggs with a fresh bun. Then I had another cup of tírithel and felt completely stuffed.

Looking at the windows behind me, I had the feeling that outside the shadows seemed to be growing deeper and deeper as the morning passed into afternoon. But inside the kitchen, it was cosy and bright. The kitchen was warm and cheerful with a log fire in the fire place, the hearth and oven brightly lit, too, and an oil lamp suspended from the blackened ceiling as an additional light source. There was the smell of baking bread and simmering stew in the air, and the cook was humming a tune as he seasoned the stew.

A warm, bright haven of safety in the darkness of the world.

I had a look around the kitchen and was thrilled as I realized that I was looking at a real working castle kitchen that was – if not exactly medieval – not all modern, industrialized, electrified. It reminded me of a kitchen I had seen in a castle in France. Had that been a kitchen of the sixteenth or the seventeenth century?

I did not really remember. What I did remember, however, was my surprise at how sophisticated the kitchen had been without any modern appliances or electricity.  
This surprise now returned threefold as I saw the whole thing in action.  
An oven for baking, an iron hearth for cooking, a fire place for roasting meat – meat as in a whole pig on a spit – complete with the turning wheel for a kitchen dog, a dog on a leash walking in circles to turn the meat. And they must have some kind of indoor plumbing. Perhaps a rainwater cistern in the roof? Anyway, there was a large sink with an iron faucet in a corner. One wall was hung with copper pans and pots shining brightly. The other wall was almost hidden by shelves and cupboards with plates and cups and pots of herbs. Doors at the back of the kitchen led probably down into the cellars and to the larders. The floor was made of cleanly swept cream coloured tiles and the walls were white washed red stones.  
It was a warm and cosy kitchen, exactly how a child would imagine the perfect kitchen.

My thoughts drifted…

Sitting in the warm, bright kitchen with two merry boys on either side chattering away, it was hard to imagine that only some three hundred and fifty miles or some five hundred and sixty kilometres, a ride of only a week with a horse like Mithril, war was raging.

_Why the hell could my thoughts not stay in the warm kitchen with my breakfast?_

War and death. Darkness and cold. Pain and fear.

I shuddered and had to put down my cup. I tried to concentrate on the warmth of the kitchen, the brightness of the fire, the smell of baking bread and the laughter of the children. I tried to recover the feeling of safety and peace I had luxuriated in only moments ago.  
It did not work.

Instead I suddenly remembered something.  
Something that I thought I had forgotten.  
Something that I thought I had never known.  
But it was suddenly very clear in my mind.  
As if I was looking at a picture.  
A bizarre version of déjà vu.

A page of the appendices of "The Lord of the Rings".  
As if I had the book open in front of me.  
The history of the war of the ring. The Tale of the Years. The Great Years. March 3019.

_"15 - …Battle of the Pelennor…  
17 - …Battle of Dale…  
18 - …the Host of the West marches from Minas Tirith…  
22 - …third assault on Lórien…  
23 - …dismissal of the faint hearted…  
24 - ...the Host reaches the Morannon…  
25 - …"_

I gulped. My heart was pounding heavily. In my mind I made some hasty calculations.  
Yes.  
It was today.  
Today was the fifteenth of March.  
The Battle of the Pelennor.

Thousands of men screaming and dying. Horror and pain.

This very minute.

_Now._

I recalled the movie, of course. That was bad enough. My mother had refused to watch it because of the gruesome battle scenes. But I also remembered films made in the trenches of the First World War, one of the first attempts at making moving pictures on earth. Trust men to make the first movies ever made movies of war and death and not of beauty or peace.  
And I knew that the real Battle of the Pelennor would be worse than anything ever thought up in the studios of Hollywood or New Zealand. Promptly my memory provided me with a fitting picture. Once I had visited the battle fields of the First World War at Verdun.

The chapel of the Ossuaire de Douaumont is built upon the bones and skulls of more than 130,000 unidentified dead of the First World War. More than the entire population of Erlangen in 2004.  
You can walk around the Ossuaire. There are glass windows set all around the basement of the Ossuaire. Behind each window there is a small chamber. Each chamber is filled with a heap of bones. Skulls, arm bones, leg bones, the bones of hands, the bones of feet, pelvic bones, rib cages, pieces of spine. Whole, cracked or barely recognizable. White, yellow, brown or covered with mould.

In a few days there would be enough bones on the fields of the Pelennor to build an ossuary there.

The Host of the West was outnumbered on the battle fields of the Pelennor.  
The forces of the West were outnumbered of at least three to one.  
If not worse. One man: three enemies. Soldiers of Harad? Fighting uruk-hai? Trolls?  
The forces of the West were also not as well equipped as the forces of the enemy.  
I remembered the hillmen with their pitchforks and their axes.  
I remembered the uruk-hai with their heavy black armour and their scimitars.  
I remembered the huge troll in Moria.  
I remembered the deadliness of the black riders.

How many were dying this very moment?

How many men were taking their last agonizing breath just now?

How many?

How many bones would fill the ossuaries of the Pelennor?

I felt sick.

"What is the matter, Lothíriel?" the Lady Míriël asked in a low voice.

I turned my head towards her in a daze.  
The warmth and the light of the kitchen had faded around me, leaving me shivering and cold.

"Today. It begins today." I could not continue.  
Before my eyes the visions of heaps and heaps of bones would not fade.  
I put my face in my hands, squeezing my eyes tightly shut.  
But the images would not go away.

"Enho, Marai, children, would you mind leaving us alone for a while?"  
"No, Mama," low, frightened voices answered from either side of me.

I felt a warm arm around my back.  
"How do you know?" Míriël asked.  
I did not look up but tried to concentrate on the warm darkness of my hands before my eyes.  
"I just know," I said. My voice sounded choked. "It is today. They will call it 'The Battle of the Pelennor'. They are outnumbered by far. So many will die. So many!"  
"How will it end?" Míriël asked in a calm voice. How could she be so calm? I felt as if I was breaking apart.  
"How will it end?" she repeated.

I drew a shuddering breath.  
How will it end?  
Would the stories keep their promise?  
I swallowed dryly.  
_Please, God, let it still be true. Let it become true!_

"The legends say Sauron was defeated. Once and for all." I looked up and met Míriël's eyes.

Míriël stared at me, her grey eyes were wide and frightened, but they were slowly filling with a cold, bright light. "Are you sure?"

"No! I'm not!" I cried. "But it's what the stories say. Where I come from, at least. But I don't know if they are still true." I paused, visions of bones still alive in my mind.  
"And even if the stories are true, so many will die."

"Where you come from, there are legends about this? About this war? About the Enemy in the East?" Míriël asked, her voice only a whisper. "About the end of the war?"

Oh, fuck. Now I had done it. I groaned. Melodramatic Lothíriel blabbing her head off. Fuck.

"I was not supposed to tell anyone. Dangerous knowledge," I said, clutching at my head.  
"I just forgot. How could I forget? I was supposed to keep silent. The enemy must not know what I know."

Especially not now. Not so close to the end.

"That's why they sent you here," Míriël said slowly. "Now I understand."

At that I raised my head. The kitchen was empty. Only the Lady and I were in the room. Only Míriël had heard my blunder. And she was safe. Imrahil was safe. Míriël was safe. No one else had heard me.

Míriël looked at me with an expression somewhere between shock and amazement on her face. "Don't worry, Lothíriel," she said. "You are safe here. Your knowledge is safe here. My husband asked me in his letter to keep you safe at all costs. I did not understand why he sent you here. I did not understand why he was so worried."  
She took my hand and squeezed it tightly. "Now I understand. You are safe here. The Enemy will never know that you exist at all."

My heart was racing.  
Keeping me safe at all costs?  
From the enemy?  
Did I mention that I am sometimes awfully stupid and awfully slow on the uptake?  
I never realized the real reason why they sent me here as out of the way as possible. Far away from Dol Guldur. Far away from Isengard. Far away from Minas Tirith.

If they had told me, I would have been too scared to take a single step.

"Lothíriel," Míriël said abruptly, but then she did not go on. I looked at the woman beside me, her arm around my shoulders, comforting me, and I saw the same fear in her eyes, the same need for comfort and reassurance that I felt myself.  
I gulped.  
"In the stories I know, he survived," I whispered. "But here… I don't know… some things are different… I don't know. _I just don't know!_"

Míriël let out her breath in a soft sigh, closing her eyes.  
"We will just have to hope… and pray."

I nodded mutely.

**ooo**

Míriël made me drink another cup of tírithel, then she called the servants and the children back into the kitchen. She did not offer any explanation to the staff and the children. But when the children announced that they wanted to show me around, she called for the guard who had escorted me to the great hall yesterday.

"Anmir, please, accompany the Lady Lothíriel and the children on their way around the castle and the town today. I don't want them to get lost." Then she turned to us. "Don't venture beyond the battlements, my dears. We don't want anything to happen to you."  
The children agreed with some grumbling. I only nodded, knowledge an icy lump in the pit of my stomach.

At the moment there were six persons who would mean the ultimate victory for Sauron, were they taken or killed. The ring bearers, Aragorn… _and myself._

I was twenty-four years old. I was an adult. I made it through black rider attacks, through Moria, through kidnapping and the paths of the dead more or less unscathed. I had learned how to fight and how to survive. I was as safe as I could possibly be in these dark and dangerous days.

And there was nothing I wanted so much as to run back upstairs and hide under my bed.


	36. The 25th of March 3019

**36. The 25th of March 3019**

**16th of March**

I woke at dawn. During the last six months I have grown accustomed to rising early. I was awake at six o'clock sharp. But there was nowhere to go and nothing to do.

At seven o'clock I made my way down to the kitchen.

I had breakfast with Míriël and her sons. Nice breakfast. But I had no appetite. I wonder why?

After the breakfast we went to the Castle's gardens. With so few men and women left, the lady and her sons had to work alongside the servants to keep the castle in order and everyone fed and clothed.

Nobility does not work in real life as it does in the movies. Actually, it's pretty hard work.

Have you ever tried to keep a castle, one five year old and one ten year old boy, assorted dogs, cats, chickens and horses clean and the gardens in order and ready for the summer?

No?

You are welcome to try.

It was another dark and cold day. The sun seemed to have fled the war and the Enemy's evil darkness. The atmosphere was subdued. Everyone was frightened; everyone missed husbands, fathers, grandfathers, uncles, sons, nephews. Old men, old women, cripples, women and children – that was all that was left of the inhabitants of Dol Amroth, town or castle.

I welcomed the work in the gardens.

It was hard work, it made my wrists hurt again and it was pretty boring, but I refused to stop and rest because the work helped to keep dark thoughts at bay.

I would have liked to take Mithril out for a ride, but Míriël would not allow it. She was right of course. Therefore I spent the afternoon in the study with Míriël and her sons.

Míriël worked on the ledgers, Númendil had to study a book about the history of Gondor, and Mel was learning how to write the runes that were most commonly used in Gondor. I was settled on a window seat with my old clothes heaped at my feet and a sewing basket sitting next to me. Most of my clothes sported tears, holes or at least fraying sleeves.

I don't only hate sewing; I am bloody atrocious at it.

Every now and again Míriël would come over to me, have a look at what I was doing, make a small hissing sound and then she would show me patiently how to do things correctly.

Did I mention that I hate sewing?

I could see that Míriël was wondering what the hell I had been doing in my life up until now, knowing nothing about gardening and cooking and sewing. But she did not ask any questions, and I tried to do what she showed me with needle and thread. It might have worked better if I did not have two left hands and only thumbs.

In the end I did get some work done, but all in all you could not really call my efforts a success in the art of sewing.

Well, it's true, at the end of the afternoon I _had_ mended some tears in my jeans and shirts. But my fingers were pierced and bleeding and my nerves were more frayed than any of my clothes. I had also discovered what the worst thing about sewing is.

No.

It's not slipping threads.

It's not piercing your own fingers.

The worst thing about sewing is that you can _think_ of other things while you do it.

You can think a lot while you try to produce so incredibly neat, small stitches that no one will notice that this particular piece of clothing was ever touched by needle and thread.

(Not that I ever achieved that goal.)

But I _did_ get to imagine at least three horrible ways of dying on the battle fields for each of my friends currently in Minas Tirith, or worse yet, in Mordor.

Had we been on earth, a few centuries before 2004, I could have stayed in a chapel all day, praying for the souls and lives of my friends. No chapel in Middle-earth.

Finally a thought that had nothing to do with…

_…here we go again._

But it's true. Although people in Middle-earth are no heathens because most of them believe in the One and the Valar, there is no church. Prayers and blessings and such are up to the head of each household. There is no church and there are no monasteries. The keeping of lore has always been up to the wizards and the elves. _Perhaps that's why_, I mused. The elves had after all, or at least many of them, been to Aman; they had seen the Valar. They did not have to _believe_. They **knew**. And through the association with the elves, men had not developed this "my religion is right and yours is wrong" issue that we have on earth.

The dwarves, it seems, have always known that Aulë has created them and it is to him that they pray; about their afterlife they don't talk to others, but I think that Aulë will take care of them. I have no idea what the hobbits believe in, apart from at least six good meals a day. I should have asked Bilbo. But in Rivendell other things had been on my mind.

_How I wished I had other things on my mind right now!_

**17th of March**

No sun. Only grey twilight. More sewing. More thinking.

Waiting. Thinking.

I felt like screaming and hitting something.

I did not.

Maybe I get a halo and a nice set of wings?

In the afternoon we played games with the kids. Númendil won three games of cards in a row. He must have a photographic memory. He knows where every card is. And there are many cards in that particular game. Mel had a temper tantrum when we stopped playing.

I was relieved.

**18th of March**

Do I need to say that there is no sun today?

After Míriël watched me running around in circles in the library for two hours, she gave me a small leather-bound diary. She told me to write down an account of my journey.

At least now I have something to do.

I started with the day I left my room in Erlangen.

I did not even hear the bell ringing for dinner. Mel had to run and fetch me.

**19th of March**

Writing all day. Writing helps. I cannot think about the present and the future when I try to write down what happened in the past. Writing is almost like a therapy.

I try to go day by day. Then I got confused about the dates and asked Míriël about the calendar of Gondor.

I should not have done that.

There are at least five different calendars in use in Middle-earth at the moment. Míriël knows all of them, even this perverse thing the elves call a calendar. She does not even have to think to convert dates.

But at the end I came to the more or less comforting conclusion that it's still only the nineteenth of March today.

This waiting is killing me.

Wrong thought. _Wrong thought._

They will survive. They have to!

**20th of March**

I spent another day writing down my adventures. I am turning into a regular Bilbo. Perhaps, when all this is over, I can copy my story down and take it to the hobbit. I bet he'd like that.

In the afternoon I reached the part of my story that involves Boromir.

I am afraid the writing is almost unreadable in parts.

Stupid tears.

**21st day of March**

I did not feel up to writing today. Writing about Amon Hen yesterday triggered some nasty nightmares. My head is achy and I feel slightly dazed, as if I did not sleep at all, which is not true. I _did_ sleep. Maybe an hour or two.

I wandered aimlessly through the castle and the town during the afternoon, always trailed by my faithful shadow, the guard Anmir. I am never left completely alone.

I ended up in the stables, mucking out the stalls.

That was the best idea I had in days.

In the evening I was sweaty and dirty and exhausted.

They have a real bath in the castle. When I went to bed that night I was pink from a hot bath and so tired that I slept like a log.

**22nd of March**

A castle at the water's edge is good for privies. You can have nice toilets on every floor.

You put them in the outer walls towards the sea, with a strategically placed opening.

The downside is that you have to clean those privies regularly because there is no such thing as regular indoor plumbing. There is a rainwater cistern that feeds the faucet in the kitchen, and there is a well just outside the kitchen, but there is no real plumbing.

We cleaned the toilets today. Yes, even the lady.

I won't go into details.

But I had no time or thought for war and death.

That's something, isn't it?

**23rd of March**

I spent another day in the stables. I think Mithril missed me. I spent hours brushing her and cleaning her and stroking her and talking to her. When I have to return her to Éowyn, I am going to miss her like hell.

Who would have thought that I could become so attached to a horse?

I always thought that I was rather a cat-person.

But Mithril is special. Not only because she is a Meara. Mithril is an exceptionally friendly and understanding horse. She is my _friend_.

I will miss her so much when she is back in Rohan.

**24th of March**

Tomorrow. Tomorrow is the day. Or tomorrow should be THE day.

I woke way before dawn, all shivery and nervous.

I cannot stay seated for a second today.

There has been no message from the east, no news, no information, nothing.

All we can do is watch the eastern sky.

The eastern sky is the same as it always has been during the last days. Dark. Very dark. No sun today either. Only grey twilight.

Once again I was running in circles in the library when Míriël had finally enough of my restlessness.

She sent me outside to play a game with the boys.

That game involved throwing a leather ball back and forth between us.

I was too nervous for that either.

After I had dropped the ball for the tenth time, I told the boys that they should play without me and went into the gardens. From the gardens of Dol Amroth you have a beautiful view of the peninsula of Dol Amroth and the coast and the sea to the southeast.

I must have been standing at the wall staring out to the sea for two hours before I realized that I was mumbling the Lord's Prayer in an unhinged, hurried whisper under my breath.

I clenched my teeth and my fists and stopped whispering.

But I remained standing at the walls surrounding the gardens and stared into the east until nightfall.

Tomorrow. My brain whispered. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

I felt sick with fear.

I did not sleep that night.

I sat on the window seat in my room, huddled in my warm downy covers and stared out across the dark seas of night to the west. The night was so dark that it was almost impossible to even see the waves. Only far, far away, at the western horizon there was a small ribbon of light, turning a small strip of sky into the normal inky blue of a spring sky at night with a few silver pinpoints of stars barely visible.

I sat there and waited for the hours to go by.

The agony of waiting and my mounting fear made place for a feeling of complete numbness. My mind was utterly blank.

I wasn't afraid anymore.  
I wasn't hoping anymore.  
I wasn't even praying anymore.

I just sat there and waited, waited for the hours to go by, for the night to go by.

Waiting for the 25th of March 3019.

**25th of March**

I missed the dawn.

What dawn?

Dawn merely meant that the utter darkness of the night was once again replaced by a grey twilight of looming eastern shadows.

I did not go down to eat breakfast but remained where I was.

I sat on the cushioned window seat. I stared at the western sky, but my thoughts were in the east. I sat with my knees drawn up against my body, my arms around my legs, my fingers intertwined. The knuckles of my fingers stood out whitely against my skin, I was gripping so hard at my hands.

My breath was shivery and trembling. It was hard to hold on and not hyperventilate, so tense were my nerves. My pulse was racing.

Today. Today. _Today._

The word echoed in my mind in tune to the frantic beat of my heart.

But during a long, grey morning nothing happened.

Nothing at all.

It was in the middle of the afternoon when it happened.

For an eerie moment I had the feeling that my heart stopped beating.

That the world stopped turning.  
That the time stood still.

That God in heaven held His breath.

Then a noise like thunder rose from the east and from deep, deep down, from deep below my feet a rumbling noise swept up. Suddenly the ground beneath my feet was shivering as if in a wave of agony, rising and falling in a huge painful heave. I was thrown off the window seat and to the ground. For a moment I lay where I had fallen, my breath knocked out of my lungs. Then I stumbled to my feet and back to the window. In the sky there was an explosion of blackness and fire coming from the east, spreading with the speed of light. For a second I thought that it was over, that the darkness would engulf us once and for all, but then I realized that even as the blackness spread across the sky it was growing thinner. **Thinner!**

The darkness was melting like the cool mist of a spring morning in the rising sun. I knelt on the window seat and stared at the sky, at the swiftly vanishing darkness and felt how, at the same time as the light of the sun and the sky returned to Middle-earth, the rumbling tremors of the earthquake ceased deep down in the bones of the earth, far beneath my feet. As suddenly as the convulsions had begun, they were gone. The earth was quiet once more.

I don't know how long I sat there, watching the darkness of Sauron fade from the world once and for all. I felt as if I was watching a divine dawn. A dawn that lasted days. But in fact it was not a long time at all. Perhaps an hour. Then it was over. The sky was a pale blue colour and the sun was shining again. The thunder and the earthquake had passed. Everything was quiet. Down below I could hear the waves of the ocean. Somewhere in the gardens behind the castle I could hear a blackbird singing its springtime song. As if nothing had happened at all. As if there had been no days and days of gloom and twilight and no sun. As if there had been no shadow and no earthquake.

It was over.

Sauron was gone.

I slumped down in the window seat and exhaled deeply.  
The tension of many months left me and I cried tears of relief.  
And then I laughed, and laughed, and laughed until I cried again.

Finally, finally I grew quiet, and calm.

I looked back out of the window and at the sea.

The sea was calm, with many small, barely white crested waves. The sea was blue, a deep, beautiful Prussian blue. The sky above the sea was a gentle, pale blue, the colour of forget-me-nots. And the western horizon was hidden in soft, white mists.

It was really over.

Then, when everything was quiet again, and the sun shining brightly, the door burst open and Míriël came running into my room, Mel and Númendil clutching her hands.

Her face was so pale that it was as white as a cloud in a summer's sky and her eyes were darker than the night and wide with shock.

She halted in the middle of the room.  
She looked at me for a moment in silence.

When she spoke, her voice was only a whisper.

"Is it over?" she asked.

I looked at her and I guess I was just as pale and that my eyes were just as wide and shocked.

When I opened my mouth to answer her, my heart skipped a beat and my stomach fluttered.

My voice sounded strange to my ears, choked and shaky, still caught somewhere between tears and laughter.

"Yes," I cried, my voice breaking, "yes, yes, yes! It's over! It's over!"

And then I was in her arms and she was in my arms and Mel and Númendil were there, too, and the four of us were embracing each other and kissing each other and laughing and crying all at the same time.

It was over.

It was really, truly over.

**oooOooo**

I have talked to many people who were not in the battle, about how they experienced the end.

In fact, I have collected a book of stories how people experienced that final hour, the death of the darkness and the rebirth of Middle-earth.

Even so many years later when I ask someone to tell me about this hour on the 25th of March 3019, they can do that without hesitation; no matter how old and frail, they remember that hour. Years, and years and years later, everyone still knows exactly where he or she was during that hour and what they were doing during that final hour of the war, when the earth trembled and the darkness exploded in the sky.

They tell their stories with hushed voices and tears in their eyes, but they smile as they speak. They smile as they relate their memory of that final hour between darkness and light.

And I know that I do the same, when my children and grandchildren ask me about that day.

_I whisper, I cry and I smile._

**oooOooo **

* * *

**This is the END of the first book of **

**"Lothíriel - The Tenth Walker! Novel".**

If you want to read more, Lothíriel's story continues in the next chapter, as her story turns from adventure story into love story...

* * *

**Please feel free to leave a comment!**

Anything at all: If you noticed a typo, if you don't like a characterization or description, if you thought a line especially funny, if there was anything you particularly enjoyed … I am really interested in what my readers think about my writing.

You can leave a public comment (signed or anonymous), send me a private message, visit my forums or mail me off-site: juno _underscore_ magic _at_ magic _dot_ ms

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter and the story so far.

Yours  
JunoMagic


	37. To Minas Tirith

**37. To Minas Tirith**

"You won't let yourself be dissuaded, won't you?" Míriël looked at me with a worried expression on her face. But I could see it in her eyes. She would not try to stop me.  
I shook my head. "I am going and I am going now. I want to see my friends! I want to see if they are alright! I have to know…" I trailed off. I could not finish that sentence and neither could Míriël. 

The older woman looked at me and sighed. "Very well. You're a woman grown. As much as I would like to keep you here as the daughter that never grew up for me, I don't have the right to keep you. I know that. And I know that you have earned the right to go and look after your friends many times over."

I stared at her, speechless. Then I simply fell into her embrace and cried once more.  
Finally we pulled back and looked at one another. In the few days I had spent at Dol Amroth, we had grown very close to each other. I did not see her as a mother, of course, but perhaps as the older sister I had always longed for, but never had. And I knew that saying my name, saying _that_ name to a living, breathing woman had healed an old sorrow in her heart.

"I have Mithril. Mithril will keep me safe! She's so fast, no one can stop her. And she's a trained war horse, too. You see, there's almost no risk involved. And someone has to ride ahead to make sure that you get nice quarters when you arrive with your slow mules. Right? I will see to it that you get nice rooms and that your husband is presentable when you arrive."  
This strange speech finally made her grin. Míriël raised her hands in a gesture of defeat.  
"Very well," she said. "I told you that I won't stop you. I will tell Marai to get some supplies ready for you. Perhaps it's just as well… or you'd give the boys ideas they really don't need."  
But she smiled at me. I embraced her again.  
"Thank you," I whispered.

It was early in the morning on the 26th of March and I was eager to be in the saddle and gallop down the road towards Minas Tirith. Now that it was over, I wanted to get to my friends. I wanted to see them, I wanted to touch them, and I wanted to make sure that they had come out of it unscathed and in one piece.

Now that Míriël had seen that I was set on having my way and would not be budged, she was all businesslike. In less than an hour my backpack was packed with supplies for ten days of travelling and Mithril was at the gates, saddled and ready to go. Míriël and the boys accompanied me to the gates. The boys were hanging onto my hands, still trying to convince me and their mother to go together and go at once.

When we came to the gates and I saw Mithril waiting for me, tossing her head impatiently and snorting, as if she wanted to ask what took me so long, an unbelievable joy grew in my heart.

It was really over and everything would be alright.

I turned and embraced the boys. "You come as soon as you can get going, and take good care of your mother on the way! Promise?" They gave me their hands and promised with very serious faces and solemn eyes.

Then I embraced Míriël again. "I'm sorry. I know I should wait, but I am so eager to get there, to make sure they are alright, and Mithril, she's so fast, I can get there so much quicker if I go on my own."  
"I know, Lothíriel, you don't have to make excuses. I have seen how worried you were for the sake of your friends. I understand. Just… be careful. Even thought it's over, the roads are dangerous, especially for a woman on her own." Míriël squeezed my arms.  
I smiled at her. "I promise. And you come to Minas Tirith as soon as you can. Promise?"  
"Of course we will, as soon as the carriage and the escort are ready. I think we will be able to leave in two days, maybe three."  
I nodded. She was just as eager to get to Minas Tirith as I was; probably more so. After all, her husband would be there.  
"Good bye, Míriël. Good bye, Mel. Bye, Númendil."  
"Good bye, Lothíriel."

I turned to Mithril and softly blew on her nose. The horse whickered lowly and blew her own warm breath into my face. Then she butted her head against my chest. She was just as impatient as I was to get going, now that it was over.  
I swung easily into the saddle and took up the reins without even thinking about what I was doing. The gates were opened before me and the captain of the guard, Anmir, saluted me with a friendly smile.

"_Celeg_, fast now, Mithril," I whispered to my horse and crouched low over her neck. _"Celeg!"_  
Mithril gave a challenging neigh that was answered by the horses in the stables of Dol Amroth and then I felt her powerful muscles bunch beneath me and she leapt into a gallop that was faster than any other horse on earth, except the gallop of her sire, Shadowfax, the wizard's horse.

She was a silvery lightning as she streaked away from Dol Amroth.

Impatient as Mithril was with having had to keep to the stable for days, I let her have her head and decide her speed for herself. She was a young horse, she was a queen of horses. She loved to run! She must have felt that my heart was light for the first time since I started riding her; how relaxed, how relieved I was! I think she felt all that and it made her only run the faster. If she had been a human being, she would have laughed and cried with joy, just as I had done yesterday. But she was a horse. She could not laugh and cry. But she could run and this was her way to express her joy at the sun and the sky and the defeat of the shadow. So run she did!  
And run and run!  
When the battlements of Tarnost suddenly appeared before me, as if an image of a dream, I reined her in, slowing her to a canter and finally into a walk. It was early in the evening. On Mithril's back I had made a journey that would have taken me three days with an ordinary horse in less than one! And had barely noticed it!

As I walked Mithril up the slope to the great gates of the fortress, the high walls seemed much brighter and far less intimidating than they had been when I had been here before.  
The gates were closed, but I had expected that.

"Hello there," I hailed the guards. "I am Lothíriel, messenger to the Prince of Dol Amroth. May I spend the night in the shelter of your walls?"

I did carry a letter sealed by Míriël with me. It would be my passport and a joy to her husband, when I reached Minas Tirith.  
The gates opened. Apparently the guards remembered me.  
Indeed, they did.

When I walked Mithril in the outer court of Tarnost, the groom that had readied her for my departure two weeks ago was already waiting for us.  
I dismounted and smiled at the burly man. He looked at me with an eager, hopeful expression in his eyes.  
"Yesterday, my lady, does it mean…" he trailed off and looked down at his scuffed boots, slightly embarrassed at his own boldness.  
I felt my smile deepen. "Yes," I said in a loud and clear voice. "It's over. Sauron is defeated. The enemy is destroyed, once and forever."

At that a flurry of excitement swept up around me and as I looked around, I realized that quite a crowd of onlookers was gathered around us. There were shouts of joy, laughter and crying, but also some grumbles about 'how could_she_ possibly know about anything like that'.

I was ready to shrug those comments off. There was no way to explain why I did know that. And soon enough messengers would come from Minas Tirith and I knew they would say the same. 

But when I turned, I found myself face to face with Sorcha. Her green eyes were questioning, her hand held her little daughter's small hand rather tightly.  
I felt a huge silly smile spread on my face. "It's really over, Mistress Sorcha."

"But how can _she_ know that," an old woman muttered behind my back. "She comes from Dol Amroth today, not from the east."

Sorcha looked at the old woman with an expression of disgust on her face. "Barthe, don't you recognize a seer without someone hitting your old head with a hammer? Why do you think she's been chosen as the messenger for the Prince and the wizard?"  
She shook her head and turned to the others. "If she says, it's over, then it is over. Now we have only to wait until our men come home."  
At this a more wholehearted cheer went up from the crowd. 

"Would you like to stay with me tonight?" Sorcha asked, her voice suddenly timid. "You would have to sleep in the chamber, but it's clean. But I can understand if you rather go up to the castle," she hurried to add.  
I looked at the young mother and shook my head. "There's nothing I would rather do. Thank you very much for the invitation."  
Sorcha smiled back at me and then led me unobtrusively away from the spontaneous celebration that had started in the courtyard.  
Suddenly a thought occurred to me. I pressed my lips together and could not prevent a sigh.  
"What's the matter?" Sorcha asked, as she walked up the slope to the town with me.  
"I only said that it's over," I explained and my voice sounded tense. "I have no idea how many survived."  
Sorcha halted for a moment and her eyes were full of pain and longing, as she looked at me.  
"I know," she said finally. "I heard every word you said. But the downfall of the enemy should be worth a celebration even if there are still tears to shed later."

When I left Tarnost early in the morning the next day, I left with the knowledge that I had a friend in Tarnost. I also carried a second letter now, to a foot soldier in the uniform of Dol Amroth, with the name of Fynbar, known as Fynn by his friends.

**ooo**

I kept Mithril to a smooth trot that day. There was no need to tire her out. The weather was fine. I found myself looking up at the sky again and again, filled with a deep, heart-felt gratitude whenever I saw _blue_ sky, _white _clouds and _golden_ sunshine after so many days of grey twilight.

At noon we reached the bridge at Ethring.  
I was hailed by the young guard that had been so very smitten with Mithril.  
"My lady! It's good to see you! Did you deliver the message?"  
"Of course I did," I called down. "The armies of the south-western provinces came this way, didn't they?" 

He looked at me and this time the expression of awe on his face was not directed at my horse, but at me. "So that was your message. I wondered. Pray, my lady, is it true what they say – is it really over?"  
I smiled at him. "I don't know who 'they' are, but it is true. It's over. The enemy is defeated and destroyed."  
"And now you carry new messages." That was not a question, but a statement. And somehow, to me it felt like a wonderful compliment.  
"Yes," I said. "I do."  
"Then Godspeed, my lady! I hope you return one day soon!"

Mithril neighed in answer and impatiently tossed her head. Apparently one day's running had not been enough to make up for the boring days in Dol Amroth's stable for her.  
Oh, very well, I thought and let her have her way, at least for a little while.  
And that young man would surely like to see her run.  
So run we did and the excited cries of the bridge guards were lost in the wind far behind us.

I made camp that night on the banks of the river Gil, a mile or so upstream from the point where the Gil joins the Raïn. It was a cold, clear night with almost no clouds and as I cuddled down in my sleeping bag I could see myriads of stars above me and the darkness of the night was not dark at all, but more like a blanket of black velvet, on which a thousand diamonds have been scattered. I looked up at the stars in the sky and breathed in the crisp air of the night and again I thought that my heart would burst with joy and relief.

I rose before dawn.

In fact, I was woken by thousands of tiny jubilant bird voices before the eastern horizon showed even the first hint of light. It was spring and the birds felt the coming of the light in their blood. I sat on the ground, huddled in my sleeping bag. Around me the grass was wet with dew. Mithril was grazing only a few feet away. I sat on the ground and watched the eastern sky and listened to the birds.

So many songs were in the air, high and clear and sweet, joining in a heavenly choir of joy at spring, at light, at the coming of the morning. Slowly, so slowly, the darkness of the night faded in the east. At first, the eastern sky turned blue. A deep, inky, nightly blue, but not any longer that fathomless velvety darkness of the night and the stars. Then the inky blue turned into a lighter colour, but it was still dark. Indigo, with no hint of gold.

But then, quite suddenly: dawn!

A brightening of the eastern sky. At first a hue of violet, a shade of purple, then red and a fiery orange. And finally, at the heart of this morning glory, the burning gold of the living sun.  
And all the time, all around me, the wild harmony of bird song, the music of a spring morning.

**ooo**

I saddled Mithril and slowly rode away into the morning with a song of my own in my heart.  
It was spring, the sun shone brightly on my face. A soft wind blew at me from the west, as if it wanted to give me a little extra speed on this peaceful journey. The road rose towards me in a welcoming ribbon, leading straight to the east, in bright sunshine.  
I nudged Mithril in a trot and on we went, covering an easy fifty miles a day – a distance that can normally only be achieved with changing horses several times and keeping to a straight gallop. 

The rest of the journey passed just as swift and uneventful as the first days. The next night I made camp at the river Celos and the following night I stayed in a small chamber at the guards' house at the bridge across the river Erui.

On the 30th of March I was on my way to Minas Tirith, riding towards the city from the south.  
The lands of the city are fenced in by a great wall made of white and grey stones. It is called the Rammas Echor and inside it lie the gardens of Gondor. The seal of Dol Amroth and the signature of the Lady Míriël opened the gate of the Rammas Echor for me. From the southern gate of the Rammas Echor to the Great Gates of Minas Tirith it is not far, only three or four miles.

**ooo**

I rode towards the city of Minas Tirith with bated breath and a pounding heart.

For my excitement there were two reasons.

The first reason everyone who has ever been to Minas Tirith will understand.

The impact of the city's architecture glimpsed for the first time in the red light of the setting sun is enough to render even the most eloquent and callous person speechless. Seven circles of white walls rise up the Hill of Guard for more than seven hundred feet, more than two hundred meters. And high up on its summit gleams the white needle of the Tower of Ecthelion.

I had often imagined what Minas Tirith really looked like. I had seen Tolkien's drawings. I had seen the illustrations in the centenary edition of the book. I had _gaped_ at Minas Tirith in the movie version.

But all those versions, be they imagination, drawing or exquisite miniature, fall far short of the real beauty of this city of men. It is impossible to give it justice with a description of mere words. Even the most accurately painted picture is only a pale reflection of the city's magnificence.

Minas Tirith cannot be described or depicted. It has to be _experienced_.

The second reason was a matter of the heart, of course.

If I remembered the stories correctly, if the stories were still true – as they seemed to be – most of my friends were still at the broken gates of Mordor or on their way to the Fields of Cormallen, where the great celebration of Frodo would be held in a few days time.

But in Minas Tirith I hoped to find Merry and Éowyn. And a man I did not know yet.

Faramir.

_And Faramir would want to talk with me about Boromir…_

**ooo**

Approaching from the south saved me for some time from the view of the Fields of the Pelennor. But the Great Gates of Minas Tirith face to the east and the city's name can be translated as "Tower of the Guard".  
Quite suddenly the road swept in an eastward arc around the Othram, the first wall, and then westwards towards the iron gates of Minas Tirith.  
It was then that I saw the battle fields of the Pelennor.  
They lay before me in the setting sun on the last day of March or Súlimë.

The gardens of Gondor were gone.  
The fair and fertile fields of the Pelennor had drowned in blood.

I reined in Mithril and stared.  
Behind me, to the south, was the only little corner of the gardens of Gondor that had survived the war more or less unscathed.  
Before me was a desert of death and destruction that spread from the Othram to the Rammas Echor. What there was left of the Rammas Echor, that is. To the east, there was nothing left of the Rammas Echor. Of the eastern and the northern road nothing remained.

In between the earth looked as if it had been tilled by a madman. Deep, ragged furrows cut deep into the ground, this way and that, crossing, re-crossing in lines of chaos. The furrows were filled with reddish, stinking sludge. A deep trench next to me was almost filled to the brim with this slimy mixture of dirt and liquid.  
But it had not rained during the last days…

Suddenly I realized what had made the sludge in those furrows and trenches.  
Blood.  
So much blood had been spilled on these fields, that it had turned the fertile soil of the Pelennor into wet, oozing mud.  
I gagged.

Only after several minutes my eyes cleared enough for me to take in further details of what the war had left behind on the fields of the Pelennor.  
The fields of the Pelennor were by no means deserted.

At the eastern edge of the Pelennor, close to the ruins of the Rammas Echor, I saw great heaps of dark shapes that I could not make any sense of. The heaps were burning with a black, sooty smoke. When the wind turned and blew a whiff of that smoke to my face, I gagged again and almost lost everything that I had eaten so far. It was the smell of burning meat, mingled with the sweet stench of putrefaction.

Groups of men and women were hard at work burning the carcasses of enemies and horses.  
At the sides of the destroyed eastern road, many mounds of white stones had been piled up. In long lines children of every age were coming and going between those mounds and the Great Gates. Coming from the Gates, they were carrying heavy stones. They walked to those mounds and placed their burden there, then turned around and went back to the city.

I watched this procession for a few minutes, before my mind registered what I was seeing.  
Those mounds were the graves of the soldiers and fighters of the West.  
In the aftermath of the battle, they had been taken care of first, so that they would not become carrion for birds and beasts. The children were now busy closing the last gaps of the cairns with the white stones of Minas Tirith, whereas the adults were at work burning the remains of the enemies. Despite their efforts, the sky above the fields of the Pelennor was dark with crows and vultures.

I looked at the mound closest to me and quickly closed my eyes. Between the white stones of the mounds there were still many chinks and holes. One was right before my eyes. I could see the remains of a hand through that gap. The fingers were relaxed. The rigor mortis had passed.  
They were already bloated with decay, looking like fat white slugs with a sick greenish tinge to the pallor.

A great black crow lighted on the stone next to that gap.  
Now it bent its black head and picked at the fingers with its large black beak.  
The greenish white skin was easily pierced, brown and red the decaying flesh burst forward. Greedily the crow picked and tore at flesh and ligaments.  
Nausea rose from my stomach in a sick wave.

A thin, pale boy of perhaps seven years left the straggling line of children carrying rocks to the mounds and ran towards the crow, yelling and clapping. The crow, not at all intimidated, only skipped back a little, a long trail of flesh and tendon dangling from its beak.  
The boy placed a large white rock in that hole, carefully covering the defiled fingers.  
The boy turned back to the gates.  
The crow took flight.

I slid from the saddle and vomited into the trench next to the road.

**ooo**

When I had spilled everything that I had eaten that day into that gruesome mixture of old blood and dirt, I took up the reins of Mithril and led her towards the iron gates of Minas Tirith.

Six heavily armed guards were standing at the gates, watching the children and the burial detail out on the fields. They were clothed in white and black uniforms with black surcoats and very bright silver helms. Their faces were grim and drawn.

I approached them warily, the letter with the Lady Míriël's seal and signature in my left hand.

When I was right in front of them, they crossed they crossed their spears in front of me and their captain walked up to me, hand on the hilt of his sword.  
"Who are you and what is your business?" he asked, his voice tired and unfriendly.  
"My name is Lothíriel. I am a messenger to Gandalf, Mithrandir, and Prince Imrahil. I have a message from the Lady Míriël for her husband, the Prince Imrahil." I held out the letter.  
The captain studied the seal and the signature for a long moment.

"I recognize the seal. Prince Imrahil has not yet returned from the Black Land. He stays with the Host of the West in North-Ithilien. A great celebration of the victory against Sauron is being prepared on the fields of Cormallen. It will be at least another week until the Host returns to Minas Tirith." The guards raised their spears and stepped back to the gates.

"I understand," I replied. Then I asked politely, "May I stay in Minas Tirith for a night or two, until I make for Cormallen? I come straight from Dol Amroth, and I have to admit that I am a little weary, even if my horse is not."  
"And a great horse it is!" The captain looked at Mithril with admiration in his eyes. "Surely one of the great horses of Rohan?"  
I nodded. "The Lady Éowyn gave her to me. Pray, sir, do you know how Lady Éowyn is? She is good friend of mine, and I have been very worried about her."  
It was one of the guards with the spears who answered. "She is well and one of the greatest heroes of our days!"  
The captain shook his head, but he was smiling. I felt a huge weight lift from my heart. Then she had done it. _She had really done!_ Exactly the way the stories told it.  
"She is in the Houses of Healing. But I am told she will recover," the captain replied.

"Bergil!" He called out, and a boy of perhaps ten years came running around the corner. He was clothed in the black and white of the guards. Apparently a squire and errand-runner for the guards. He bowed to me and the captain. "Yes, sir, my lady."  
"This is the Lady Lothíriel. She is a messenger from Dol Amroth. Please taker her to the Old Guesthouse and see that a room is made ready for her, and then escort her to the Houses of Healing."  
"Very well, sir," the boy said and bowed again, then he turned to me. "If you will follow me, my lady?"  
I nodded at the guards and followed the boy into Minas Tirith.


	38. Faramir

**38. Faramir**

When we passed the Great Gates, I saw that the strong iron plates of these huge doors were burst and broken. Only fragments of the doors still hung crooked from the mighty hinges, and the stone around them was blackened with soot.

As we walked through the first circle of Minas Tirith, it was plain to see where the children found the stones they kept carrying to the grave mounds along the eastern road. Of the first circle of Minas Tirith not much remained. Many houses were ruined by missiles thrown by the enemy; many more were burnt to the ground.

The Old Guesthouse was one of the few buildings that had survived the siege almost unscathed. It was in the Lampwrights' Street, the Rath Celerdain, and as it was situated close to the Great Gates, it was the traditional guesthouse for any messengers that passed through Minas Tirith. It was an ancient building; the white stone of Minas Tirith in its walls had faded to grey with wind and weather of many hundred years. It had two wings at its back and a small green garden in a courtyard between these two wings; the left wing had lost its roof during the siege, but apart from that, the Guesthouse was undamaged. From this small garden a flight of stairs ran up to a pillared porch; on sunny days breakfast and dinner was served out on the porch. Next to the right wing a large stable was situated. The façade of the building that faced the street seemed bleak and stern and not very inviting.

Bergil walked ahead of me with the quick easy strides of an energetic boy. Before the door of the guesthouse he halted and tolled a brass bell hanging next to the door.  
A young girl opened the door, looking pale and tired. "Hello Bergil," she said, then she noticed me and curtsied. "My lady."  
"Captain Gerath sends me. Lady Lothíriel is on her way to Cormallen with a message for Prince Imrahil, but she's tired and needs to rest for a day or two. Do you have room for her and the horse?" Bergil asked, his voice still the high sweet voice of a child, although his eyes were dark and weary from the war he had seen.

The girl frowned, obviously almost too tired to think straight. "Well, we are almost full with wounded, just like everyone else. But if you don't mind sleeping in a chamber above the stables, my lady, I think you can stay."  
"I don't mind at all. And I can take care of my horse on my own. The wounded are more important than a healthy horse and its rider," I told her.  
She nodded. "Very well, my lady. I will see to it that the chamber is made ready. Bergil, could you show her the way?"  
"Sure, Cara. I'm to take her to the Houses of Healing to see the Lady Éowyn anyway. Don't trouble yourself."  
The girl gave us a weary smile. "Thank you, Bergil. My lady."  
She indicated a quick curtsy and closed the door again.

"Come, my lady, the stable's just over there." Bergil led the way. "I am sorry that we can offer you no better quarter, but as Cara said, we have wounded fighters everywhere in the city. They have taken many private houses away from their owners to quarter Gondorian soldiers there, but the wounded foreigners, the elves and the Rohirrim, are in public houses. You know, because of people's sensibilities…" He snorted as he opened the stable doors for me. "Sensibilities! Superstitions, more like! They should be grateful that so many foreigners came to our aid. There, that's it."

The stable was clean and empty, apart from a black kitten that was blinking at me sleepily from a bale of straw. The chamber was just upstairs from the stable. In normal days it was probably the home of the stable boy. It was clean, with white washed walls, a tiny window, a narrow cot, a small table and a stool. I threw my backpack on the bed and went back downstairs. In the few minutes I had been upstairs, Bergil had unsaddled Mithril and had spread a thick cover of straw in one of the stalls.  
"Thank you," I said.  
The boy grinned. "No problem, my lady. She's a beauty! All the horses of Rohan are, but she's a queen even to them."  
"She's a Meara," I told him, as I started brushing Mithril's shiny coat. "Her sire is Shadowfax."  
"The wizard's horse?" Bergil's voice was full of awe. "Indeed a queen of horses, then. I will go and get you some water and oats." He disappeared through a small door into the inner courtyard of the guesthouse.  
I had just finished cleaning Mithril's hooves, when he appeared again, carrying a large tin bucket and a small sack. When Mithril was supplied with water, oats and hay, we were ready to leave.

"We can acquire some refreshments for you on the way up to the Houses of Healing, my lady. It's quite a way," Bergil told me.  
"That's alright, I am not hungry." I swallowed dryly at the memory of the Fields outside the city's walls. Bergil looked at me with a grim expression on his face.  
"If I had not been appointed page to the guards because so many of them were killed, I would still be with the burial detail," Bergil commented. "I prefer running errands for the guards."

**ooo**

The gates to the next level of Minas Tirith were not far from the Old Guesthouse.  
Here there were only two guards in the black and white colours of the Citadel.  
Bergil gave my name, business and the appropriate password and led me through the gate.  
From that gate we walked along the main street to the cliff that jutted out from the soft slopes of the Hill of Guard like a great keel of some petrified ship. The road went right through the cliff in a dark tunnel that was lit by a handful of torches. The tunnel could be shut by iron doors, and these, even though it was only the second ring of the city, had withstood the onslaught of the enemy.

Behind the tunnel, after perhaps another thousand feet or three hundred meters, the next gate opened to the third level of the city. In that manner tunnels and gates led from circle to circle in a long, winding route from the Great Gates to the Citadel on the summit of the hill.

Although the doors of the tunnel of the second level had been held against the enemy, most of the houses of the second and many buildings of the third ring of the city were burnt, collapsed and ruined, barely recognizable heaps of stone and blackened beams.

But from the fourth to the sixth circle of the city there were fewer and fewer destroyed mansions. Although the ravages of the siege were plainly visible in walls and houses even as high as the sixth level, on the sixth level no house had been destroyed completely.

The Houses of Healing were situated on the sixth and smallest level of Minas Tirith, in the shelter of the cliff. No missile or hostile fire had touched these Halls because Gandalf himself had tied spells of safety and endurance to their stones as I was told later. The Houses of Healing were surrounded by a beautiful garden with grassy lawns with many flowers and sparkling fountains, shaded from the hot southern sun by great plane trees. It was the only public garden in Minas Tirith. But even this idyllic spot had not survived the war unscathed. Now the fountains lay quiescent and dry. One of the great plane trees had been hit by a fiery missile and now lay broken and blackened on the ground.

Nevertheless, I enjoyed seeing green grass and sweet colourful spring flowers under the deep blue of the evening sky after the gruesome images that had assailed me since I had entered the Pelennor today.

Bergil led me into the entrance hall of the Houses of Healing. This was a white, domed hall set at the centre of three wings of houses. In the roof of the dome were many glass windows to shed sunlight on an indoor garden that had been planted at the centre of the hall. Here the fountain was already working again and murmuring peacefully in its basin of white marble.

As soon as we entered the hall, an old woman dressed in grey robes walked towards us.  
"That is the Mistress Ioreth, chief of healers at Minas Tirith," Bergil whispered to me.  
Then he bowed to the lady. The lady in question was perhaps sixty or seventy years old, her face line with care and smiling, but her chin jutted out stubbornly and her eyes held a sparkle that betrayed a lively temper. Here was a healer that would not put up with any nonsense from her patients.

"What is it this time, Bergil? Have you tried to fight a troll on your own again or have you brought me another patient?" Ioreth's keen eyes dropped to my bandaged wrists.  
"No, mistress," Bergil said respectfully. "This is the Lady Lothíriel, she is on her way to Cormallen with a message for Prince Imrahil, but she is a friend of the Lady Éowyn and wanted to see how her friend has recovered."  
An enigmatic smile appeared on Mistress Ioreth's face. "The Lady Éowyn is doing just fine. I will take you to her in a moment. Bergil, why don't you run off to the kitchen? You look starved and the Halfling is driving the cook crazy."  
"Halfling?" I asked, feeling excitement sweep through me. Then Merry was alright!  
"A hobbit. He was wounded at the Battle. Do you know him?" Ioreth narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing me.  
"I was with the company that set out from Rivendell. We were parted at Amon Hen."  
"Then you have travelled with Boromir?" Ioreth asked and her voice was full of ill concealed grief.  
I swallowed hard. "Yes, I was."  
"He is dead, did you know that?" the Lady continued, her eyes searching my face.  
I looked down at my feet. "Yes, I do. I think I saw him die."  
"Then there is someone else in these Houses you have to talk to," the Healer said, but this time her voice was soft. What had she seen in my eyes?  
I swallowed again, feeling a lump in my throat. "Yes, I know."  
"And you are hurt, too." She pointed at my wrists.  
"I'm almost good as new. The wounds were stitched and I think they are getting better. They don't itch anymore and they don't hurt anymore."  
Ioreth nodded. "That sounds promising. Let me have a look at the stitches. You don't want them to grow into your skin."  
I gulped. I had steeled myself against talking to Faramir. I had not imagined having any stitches removed today.

But I was at Ioreth's mercy. I could hardly run away screaming.  
She led me into a quiet room that sported all the appliances necessary for what went under the description of healing in Middle-earth. It isn't medicine what they do in Middle-earth. They are at once more primitive and much more sophisticated. They don't have the machines and stuff you need for modern medicine, but their herbal remedies are superior to anything found on earth. They have a more… I don't quite know how to explain it… a holistic approach. They do wonders for psychological and mental afflictions. And then there are those with well, magical abilities, and some of them can do just about anything. However, there are no anaesthetics and no aspirin.

Ioreth unwrapped my wrists. I was surprised to see that they almost looked like wrists again.  
Humming under her breath, Ioreth got out tweezers and scissors and without much ado pulled out the stitches. I think I went fairly green in the face. It hurt like the dickens, and there were faint traces of blood where she pulled out the thread.  
But when she had cleaned off the blood, my wrists looked almost normal again, apart from the deep red scar that circled my wrists. The scars were about two inches wide, but they were fairly level and did not inhibit my movements.

"Not bad," Ioreth said. "You moved a lot during the last weeks. That has kept your hands mobile. That was lucky. Otherwise you would barely be able to move your hands now.  
The feet, too, presume?"  
I nodded weakly and lay down on the stretcher, putting my feet up to her ministrations.  
She also removed the stitches at my ankles. "They have healed well, too. And I think you will keep your full mobility, my lady. You were really lucky."  
I looked at my ankles. They looked worse than the wrists. I had never realized how easily I could have been crippled for life.  
Ioreth produced a jar with an _athelas_ salve, lathered my wrists and ankles and bandaged them again neatly. "There. That's it. I will have a small jar of that salve and some additional bandages ready for you when you leave. The king swears on that salve. I have seen it used where all else failed. 'Tis a miracle, athelas is. It will be most beneficial for your wounds, too. Keep the bandages on and lather the salve on it in the morning and in the evening for two or three more weeks. That should reduce the scars and prevent any additional scar growth."  
"Thank you, my lady," I said, clenching my teeth against the burning sensation of the salve on the irritated scars.  
Ioreth smiled. "You are welcome. It's nice to see some wounds that will heal well."  
The way she said that implied that she had seen too many wounds during the last days that would not heal well, if they would heal at all.  
"Now I will take you to the Lady Éowyn. Likely we will find the Lord Faramir with her. Since they are up and about, they like to spend the evenings together on the terrace at the back," Ioreth told me.  
Faramir? Éowyn? A broad grin spread across my face. Now wouldn't that be wonderful if the stories were right on that account, too!

Ioreth led me back into the entrance hall and then through the hall to a front of what we would probably call French doors; high glass doors opening on a terrace just behind the sixth level's walls. The terrace looked to the south, and there were southern plants set about it in great earthenware pots, oleander and lemon and sweet smelling jasmine. They were sitting on a warm blue blanket spread over a white marble bench in the last golden-red rays of sunlight.

A tall, dark haired man and a tall, slender woman with silver-golden hair flowing down her back to her hips. The man was reading something to the woman, and suddenly she laughed, and her laugh was bright and happy and young.

Sometimes I'm such a sentimental git. And all that emotional turmoil of that waiting and the gruelling sights of the battlefields and then the relief had barely settled in my heart… Whatever the reason or excuse… there were tears in my eyes when I heard Éowyn laugh like that. I had never realized just how worried I had been for her.  
When I glanced at Ioreth standing next to me, I was surprised to see the old woman smiling joyfully. It's Faramir, I thought, remembering Bergil's voice when he had spoken that name. They love him.

Then Ioreth cleared her throat and I had no more time to ponder the affection the inhabitants of Minas Tirith had for Faramir. "My Lady Éowyn, my lord Faramir, you have a visitor."

Éowyn turned and simply stared at me.

** ooo**

Oh, Éowyn, I thought, seeing how ill and pale my friend still looked, her shield arm held lifeless in a sling before her chest. _Oh, Éowyn._

But I had no time to think anything else because Éowyn was on her feet in an instant, calling my name and running for me, and then she embraced me and I cried and she cried and then she laughed and I laughed, too. A moment later she tried to tell me everything that had happened to her at once and I did, too, and I think I heard the name Faramir about twenty times in three seconds, and at last we sank down on the bench holding hands and gasping for breath.

And that is _exactly_ how it should be when friends meet again after war and darkness.

Faramir had risen to his feet, too, and had apparently watched the show from a safe distance.  
Now he looked at me with great curiosity in his eyes.

I looked at him in turn and I caught my breath in sharply, feeling suddenly a painful lump in my throat. He looked very much like his brother and yet he did not look like his brother at all. They had the same, dark, wavy hair, the same clear cut, aquiline features, the same thin nose and the same stubborn chin. But Faramir's face was softer, his eyes were warm and grave and they held a hint of blue among the grey. He was not quite as tall and not as powerfully built. And the way he held himself was not as fierce and arrogant as Boromir's stance had been; Faramir seemed to be much kinder, friendlier.  
Nevertheless, he reminded me a lot of his brother.  
I blinked my eyes hard, trying to discourage a new deluge of tears.

Éowyn smiled at me. She smiled at Faramir. She positively glowed. And he glowed right back. "My Lord Faramir, this is the Lady Lothíriel; she came from Rivendell with the fellowship and is my dearest friend."  
Did I mention I am really soppy sometimes? I had to dash at my eyes quickly before I could get to my feet and bow to the Steward of Gondor.  
"My lord," I whispered. Faramir bowed to me, too. I blushed. I think I will never get used to that etiquette.  
"It's a pleasure to meet such a good friend of the White Lady of Rohan."  
I looked at Éowyn and saw with considerable satisfaction that now it was her turn to blush.

The introductions complete, we were interrupted by a couple of servants carrying one table, one comfortable chair for Faramir, several lanterns, one iron basket to light a fire in to warm the terrace and a huge tray with wine and food. They set everything up and disappeared again as quickly as they had come.

Faramir smiled at us. "I think the Mistress Ioreth has decided that we should invite you to dinner, Lady Lothíriel. Would you care to join us?"  
"It would be a pleasure," Éowyn answered for me. I grinned at her. Our friendship – sprung to life in the heap of manure at the Royal Stables of Edoras – had somehow made it through weeks of war and darkness. Now it was warm and strong. Faramir's eyes brightened at seeing Éowyn so easy going and light hearted.  
"Is that true?" he asked me.  
I smiled happily. "Of course it's true. Not that I would ever dare to contradict Éowyn even if it wasn't!" Éowyn actually giggled at that remark. Faramir poured red wine for us, cut bread and cheese, passing it around with a bowl of sweet raisins.

I turned to Éowyn, reaching out with careful fingers to the arm in the sling. "You did it, didn't you?" I said softly. "What no man could do."  
Éowyn shivered with the memory. Her eyes were suddenly haunted.  
"Yes," she replied in a voice filled with pain. Her uncle had died then, I remembered suddenly. I had never met King Théoden. But I knew she had loved him very much.  
"I am so sorry for your uncle."  
She nodded and closed her eyes.  
When she opened them again, they were dark, but there were no tears. She was such a strong woman. I could never keep up a façade of strength like that.

Abruptly Éowyn changed the subject. "Now it's your turn, Lothy. What did you do to my horse?"  
Faramir raised his eyebrows. "To your horse? What has the Lady Lothíriel got to do with your horse?"  
"Oh, not that horse. She is currently the rider of the second best horse in the Royal Stables of Rohan," Éowyn said, then fixed me with a gimlet eye and added. "I hope."  
I grinned at her. "Mithril is perfectly alright. She's down at the stables in the Old Guesthouse, munching on oats and hay, and eager to run some more."  
"Pray, my ladies, would you tell me the whole story?" Faramir asked. "Because at the moment I am afraid that I cannot follow you at all."

Looking at the face of my best friend in Middle-earth and the brother of the man I had shared love with in dark and dangerous hours I made a quick decision.

"It is a very long story," I said.  
"We have time," Éowyn replied softly.

The sun was setting in a glow of red. But with the fire basket the terrace was comfortably warm, and the lit lanterns placed around us and on the table were bright and colourful.  
We would be cosy here for as long as the story would take. And there was enough wine to loosen my tongue.

I took a sip of the wine, then considered for a moment where I should start.  
A line of a silly song floated through my mind. _Start at the very beginning, a very good place to start…_

**ooo**

"You have to know there are many worlds in the universe, scattered through time and space. The world I come from is very different from this one. There are no elves, no dwarves, no hobbits, and very little in the way of magic. But somehow, knowledge about this world here and its history has travelled across time and space to my world. There are books about your history in my world. That's where I got my name from."

They gaped at me. "My mother read about your world in those books, and she came across my name, and she liked the sound of it so much that she decided to call me 'Lothíriel'. I guess that is where this story really started."

Faramir put his chin in his hands and was listening raptly. Éowyn was shaking her head. She probably thought that this naming business was pretty silly. Well, I guess it was. But if my mother had not indulged in her spleen there, I would never have come here, would never have found the true home of my heart.

"I was a law student. Someone who studies the laws of a land to become a judge, or a lawyer."  
Éowyn frowned at that. But Faramir understood what I was talking about. "A councillor, a lore master, is that right?"  
I nodded. "Yes, something like that. In my world and my time women do about the same things as men do, they choose a profession and work for their living. Not all of them, not everywhere, but more or less. It's complicated. And not really important for the story. I can tell you about it some other time." I could see that Éowyn would want to know a lot about that part. "One day I discovered that I did not really like what I was doing, and that nobody really needed me doing it. There were thousands doing the same thing as I was, and doing it better than I was doing it. I realized that in fact I had no real life of my own at all."

Éowyn sighed deeply. I smiled at her but continued, "I felt at odds with the world and with myself. I decided to take a break, to decide what I wanted for me, my life. I left my studies and went hiking for a couple of weeks."  
"Hiking?" Éowyn asked, confused.  
"Walking for pleasure, sleeping out in the open, trying to find some peace of mind in the hills and the woods," I elaborated.  
She nodded. "I always felt better about my life when I could get out and ride for a few hours, ride fast and far," she said.  
"Exactly. It helped me, too. After a few days, I was sure that I did not want to go back to my studies, and I had realized that I did not feel as if I belonged where I was at all. I had almost decided to go home and travel to another country and try my luck there, when I met Gandalf."  
"Gandalf?!"  
"Mithrandir?!" They stared at me, perplexed.  
"Yes, him. Wizards can travel between the worlds apparently. I have no idea what he did in my world. I did not even realize it was him, at that time. But we talked, and he discovered that I knew the books about this world, and I guess he thought that my knowledge could perhaps help in the battle against Sauron. Anyway, somehow he managed to spirit me away from my world into this world."  
"That's why your things look so strange," Éowyn said suddenly. "And why you…"  
She trailed off, thinking back to our first conversation at Edoras.

"And then Gandalf took you to Rivendell?" Faramir asked.  
"No," I shook my head. "That would have been too easy. I arrived a few miles away from Bree; that's close to the Shire, where the Halflings live. I met Aragorn there, and the Hobbits. Fortunately Aragorn was inclined to believe me about what I knew… or perhaps he only thought that I was mad and might be dangerous back then. Anyway, he allowed me to travel with them to Rivendell. There I met Gandalf and realized that it had been him back in the hills of my world. By then I felt at home here." I paused for a moment. "I have no idea when or how it happened, but when I arrived at Rivendell, I already knew that I never wanted to return to my world but stay here, forever."

"You must be mad," Éowyn told me. "Falling for a world at the brink of war and destruction! Leaving a world where women can do everything they want to do for this! You have to be completely out of your mind!"  
I shrugged. "Perhaps. I did not say that it was a reasonable decision. Well, at Rivendell it was decided to include me in the fellowship, in the hope that my knowledge might help."  
"And did it?" Faramir asked.  
I looked at Éowyn, a silent question in my eyes. She reached out to me and gently squeezed my hand.

"Yes and no," I said finally. "There were several small things before Rivendell, and afterwards, too, where I was… perhaps an aid to the fellowship… but it's difficult. Sometimes painful things have to happen so that something very good and beautiful can happen in the end. Sometimes, no matter what you know, you cannot escape fate."  
I pressed my lips together tightly, gathering courage. I had been honest up until now; I had to keep being honest. Let's hope they still talk to me when they know… Will they think I'm a slut?

I looked at Faramir and gulped. "My lord, I came to know your brother very well. He was a wonderful man. And we were very close."  
"How close?" Faramir asked, his voice suddenly cold. Did he think I had come to get money out of this connection? My heart pounded, I felt terribly hurt.  
But I went on in a calm voice, trying not to let my feelings show.  
"We were very close. He asked me to allow him to court me when we were safely in Minas Tirith. I was not sure about this, but I agreed. But it doesn't matter now, does it? He's dead."  
I had to stop for a moment, drawing a deep breath. This was going to be difficult.  
"He… the ring… the ring had this horrible power over the mind and the heart, especially of men. I only withstood the ring because an Elf-Lord of Rivendell trained me in a special kind of meditation that guards the mind from such influences. Boromir was never taught something like that. He was helpless against the power of the ring. Even when… we were close, he was going mad from the power of the ring. I tried to help him as best I could, with all my heart and –"

Say it, damn it. You know it's the truth. Perhaps it had been much more important than any oh so wise pieces of advice about shielding the mind and the power of the ring. I gulped again. Then I inhaled deeply and continued.  
"With all my heart and my body. Look, I did not know your brother very well, but I cared very deeply for him. I can't say that I loved him because I believe that such feelings need time to grow, but I cared more than I can ever say, and I tried to help him withstand the lure of the ring. I tried with everything I had."  
This time Faramir's voice was soft when he asked, "Could you help him?"

I shrugged helplessly, feeling tears well up in my eyes. I blinked them away. "I don't know. He was losing it when we came to Amon Hen. I tried to reason with him, but he was so changed, I think he was slowly going insane. He was angry beyond words, and then he shoved me, and I stumbled and fell into the lake. When I managed to get out off the water, he had run away. He had run off to find the ring bearer. What he said to Frodo, I do not know. But the fellowship was broken that day. Frodo and Sam went away on their own. Merry and Pippin ran off into the woods. We went after them, Boromir and I, and Aragorn and the others went looking for Frodo. Boromir and I found Merry and Pippin. But we were too late. There were orcs about, orcs from Mordor and from Isengard, and some that had followed us out of Moria. The orcs found the Hobbits first. We tried to fight the orcs. For a time, we held out against them. But in the end there were too many orcs. Merry, Pippin and I were taken. Boromir was killed. I saw how he was hit by several black arrows, and then I lost consciousness."

Faramir moaned and covered his face with his hands. "Oh, Boromir! How could you fail like that?"

"No," I said, finally giving up trying to hold back my tears. I felt the tears running into my nose and my mouth. My voice sounded choked when I went on. "He did not fail. Gandalf told me later at Edoras. Boromir went to Frodo and argued with him. He was angry and shouted some, and Frodo was frightened and knew that it was the lure of the ring that was affecting Boromir. So Frodo ran away. But Boromir never tried to take the ring. I have no idea if that has anything to do with… what was between us, but in the end Boromir's strength did not fail. You should know that."  
I rubbed my sleeve across my face and sniffled a little bit, trying to get calm again.

"Love makes all things possible," Éowyn said in a soft, clear voice and she smiled at Faramir. Faramir lifted his head. I could see that he had been crying, too. But when he looked at Éowyn, the grief and pain left his face for an expression of tenderness and happiness that touched my heart. Their gaze locked, silver-grey eyes and blue-grey eyes, giving comfort to each other, healing the losses they had experienced.  
I sighed. At least one good thing had come of this war.

"I do believe that it was you that saved my brother's soul," Faramir said suddenly, his voice darkened again. "You knew my brother only for a little while. But I knew him very well and loved him dearly. He was proud, and arrogant. Stubborn. He could not believe that the strength of a warrior might not be the key to solve all problems. No, if he found the strength to withstand the lure, then it was because of you. You have to realize, no woman ever really touched his heart enough to make him angry."  
Suddenly Faramir smiled. "And so many have tried… he took all the advantages of his position, but he always remained strangely aloof… keeping his heart safe from the girls, living a warrior's life. If you made him so angry that he could not even speak anymore, you held his heart in your hands."

At that I completely lost it and I simply started sobbing like child. I had managed not to think about Boromir for the last weeks, busy and full of fear as they had been. Or if I had thought of him, it had been only for very short moments and then I had shoved any thoughts and memories ruthlessly away, to be dealt with later.  
Now that I had told Faramir all I could say about the last days and the death of his brother, I could finally begin to let go. And so I sat and cried once again for soft touches and an easy smile and sweet might-have-beens gone from the world in a shower of black arrows at Amon Hen.

**ooo**

As I cried, Éowyn simply sat next to me, stroking my back, saying nothing. She had changed a great deal from the angry, infatuated young woman I had first met at Edoras. She was no less fierce, but she was not as judgmental as she had been, softer in her attitude towards herself and towards others. 

When I had cried myself out and Faramir and Éowyn had dried some tears of their own, our talk turned to other matters. I told about my ride through the Paths of the Dead, and Faramir and Éowyn related the Battle of the Pelennor. We stayed on the terrace talking late into the night. When the fire in the iron basket had burned down, we simply moved into Faramir's room and continued talking in front of the fire place.

Only when the sky was already bright with a new morning, we stopped talking, having relieved our minds of every thing that had disturbed us or made us happy during the last weeks and many things besides. For another hour we simply sat together in comfortable silence as you can sit with only the best of friends.  
I never made it down to the Old Guesthouse that night but was finally led to a small chamber with a clean, narrow bed by a young woman in the grey robes of a healer.


	39. An Invitation

**39. An Invitation**

I blinked and for a moment I did not know where I was. A small white chamber with a narrow bed, a small table and a stool. I had never been here before.  
I sat up and groaned slightly.  
Éowyn, Faramir, a jug of red wine and night's talking.  
No wonder my head ached and my throat was dry. 

The door opened silently. Pale golden hair and dark grey eyes.  
"Why are you awake, Éowyn?"  
"I don't know. Why are you still in bed? I thought you had a message for Prince Imrahil."  
But she smiled and added, "I would think it's because you have spent most of yesterday riding, and I have been doing nothing but lie in bed and sleep for days after… the battle."

I swung my legs around. During the night the bandage had slipped off my right ankle.  
I winced as it touched the frame of the bed.

"Does is still hurt?" Éowyn asked.  
I shook my head. "It's only a little tender. Mistress Ioreth removed the stitches yesterday." Then I returned the question. "How's your arm? Did Aragorn have a look at it?"  
She did not react to that name at all, merely smiled at me and nodded. "He did. He thinks I will eventually get back the full use of my arm. But it takes time."  
"And it hurts."  
She grimaced and nodded. A few weeks ago you would have had to kill her before she would ever have acknowledged any pain. I did not comment on that. But I grinned impudently at her. "Bet my scars look more interesting."  
Éowyn sat down next to me. "That would depend on whom you would want to take an interest in your scars, oh noble warrior lady and messenger of Gandalf the wizard."  
I raised my eyebrows in a questioning look. Why did she think someone should be interested in my scars?

"A messenger has come from the Host. You know that a great celebration is prepared on the field of Cormallen for the eighth of April. My brother has sent an invitation to me. The Mistress Ioreth has said that I would probably be strong enough to make it. But now that it's over…" Her clear grey eyes clouded with remembered darkness, grief and pain. "I find that I do not care for songs or glory."

For once I did not feel silly to offer a gesture of warmth and friendship. I put my arm around Éowyn's shoulders and simply held her for a moment. At first she tensed. But then she relaxed and sighed and even laid her head against my shoulder. To see the fields of the Pelennor two weeks after the battle would give me nightmares in the days to come. To have experienced the actual battle would have probably traumatized me for life.

Finally I felt her stir, so I pulled away and smiled at her again. Only a small smile, but I had had an idea how to brighten her mood. "Could it be that you just don't care for your brother's company as much as for the company of a certain good-looking Steward of Gondor?"  
Éowyn rounded on me, her eyes flashing, her pale cheeks coloring. I sat there and grinned broadly, almost chuckling. Yes, and yes and yes!

Éowyn tried to give me one of her grim looks, but it faltered halfway, giving way to a soft smile. "You just _might_ be right about that, Lothíriel."

I felt my grin growing broader still. Then I remembered her quip about my scars.  
"Now that we have settled that, let's get back to who might be interested in my scars."  
It seemed that now it was Éowyn's turn to grin at me. I raised my eyebrows and frowned in earnest.  
"You don't aspire to a position as a matchmaker, do you?" I asked my friend.

Éowyn shrugged and smiled sweetly, radiating innocence. "My brother, you know, one Éomer King is in need of a dinner partner. And I happen to know that he was quite worried about a certain young noble lady's health and well-being when he was told that a certain young noble lady had left Edoras accompanying Aragorn to the Paths of the Dead."

I opened my mouth and shut it again.  
Then I tried again. "I have seen your brother only two times, Éowyn. And I seem to remember that I told you yesterday where I come from, so you can just drop all that about noble lady. I am just Lothíriel. Nothing less and nothing more."

Éowyn rolled her eyes. "Oh, don't be a grouch, Lothy. I don't want to go, I can't. I need time. And, yes, you are right; I want to spend all the time I can get with Faramir. When things get back to normal, we won't be left alone together for a year!"

I stared at her, the words slowly sinking into my mind. Then I almost squealed. "Does that mean, Éowyn, does that mean what I think it means?"

This time she blushed red as a beet. "Well, not yet in so many words, but he… he stated clearly his intention of…"  
"Never letting you out of his sight again!" I continued for her.

She nodded and giggled.  
"Are you serious that you will be chaperoned for a year? A real old-fashioned betrothal?"  
Éowyn shrugged. "For you that may be old-fashioned or strange, but here… I am the sister of the King of Rohan, or will be, once my uncle is buried and Éomer is crowned. Faramir is the Steward of Gondor, the second in command after Aragorn. It will be a year and a day, I'm afraid, and all the proper procedures."

"Pooh," I sighed. "You know, I do understand that celebrations and songs are hard on you right now, and with Faramir besides, I understand that you won't go. But why make me go in your stead?"

"Simple," Éowyn replied. "I think Éomer likes you. Perhaps because he saved your life?  
There has to be a reason for all those 'damsel in distress' stories the harpers like so much to tell… Anyway, he was really upset when he found out that you were gone."  
I gaped at her. "Damsel in distress"! And how had that expression made it to Middle-earth? Or the other way round?!  
"Don't you like my brother?" There was a hint of steel in her voice.

Éomer. How could I say if I liked him or not?  
I had only seen him twice and only for a short time. I was beginning to regret the jokes I had made in this conversation so far. But suddenly I remembered deep dark eyes, and voice like…

"You like him, too." Éowyn announced, satisfaction in her voice. "You will go and accept the invitation for me. And after all, it's only because of you turning messenger and riding all over Gondor that you have no invitation of your own. So that's settled then."

I don't know much about the strategies of war. But I do know when I've lost the battle. I raised my hands in mock defeat. "Okay, it's settled. Everything to add a flourish to your betrothal."

Oh, how she blushed at that word!  
Would I ever be in love like that again?  
Experience told that I would be some day, but just now, even though the pain over Boromir's death had faded to a dull ache, I could not really imagine to ever feeling like that again.  
Don't be stupid, Lothíriel. One day you will. It's only a question of time. And now you have the time.

"Well, if there's nothing else you can torture me with, how about you show me where I can wash up and get ready to leave? After all," I growled, "I'm supposed to be a messenger!"

"I will show you to the baths; they are quite nice," Éowyn told me. "And you know, you could wait until the day after tomorrow when the supply train leaves for Cormallen. Merry will ride with them, too. I think he would be happy to have a friend from the fellowship along for the ride."

"Bath," I said in a plaintive voice. "Bath and breakfast. All other evil suggestions only after that. Please!"

**ooo**

My hair still damp from a quick but warm bath – there was always lots of warm water in the Houses of Healing as a matter of course – I entered the kitchen accompanied by Éowyn just in time for what a hobbit would call "elevenses" and what other people might call a "brunch".  
Anyway, the first thing I noticed in the kitchen was the obligatory large, square wooden kitchen table laid out for four. The next thing I noticed was that someone was already seated at the table casting a greedy glance at some sizzling sausages. Well, not someone. It was Merry. And what a _merry_ Merry!

I gaped at the hobbit. He had grown quite a bit since I had seen him the last time. Standing, his head was higher than my elbows now and his extremely curly dark hair added at least another inch. This ent-draught had to contain some serious mischief of hormones…

But Merry had obviously suffered no ill side-effects. He looked strong, tall, and, yes, handsome. Handsome – you know the way some boys around twenty suddenly don't look like boys anymore, but like real men? That kind of change. A part of it was the war, of course; there was a new depth in Merry's eyes, a hint of seriousness and grave thoughts that had not been there before. But it was more; it was the way he looked and the way he carried himself –at that point my musings were interrupted by a force of nature crashing into me and hugging me, drawing down my head and smacking loud kisses on each cheek.

"Lothíriel! Lothy! They told me you were here! You made it! We were so worried when we could not find you, when we managed to escape the orcs! But Gandalf told us that you would be alright, and then we came to Edoras and you were gone, and Éomer, the third marshal, no, now he's king, he was so upset, and then we were worried, too, and then Éowyn was so worried for Aragorn, and what with the battle and no one knew where you were and…"  
He stopped to draw breath. I used that chance because I knew it might be the only one I would get. I hugged Merry back and said, "It's good to see you again, Merry. Are you well? I heard that you were injured, too."

Merry grinned at me and moved his arm for me this way and that. "I'm as good as new. Aragorn did it. He is going to be king of Gondor, did you know that? And he has healing hands!"

"I know," I said, smiling. Merry followed my gaze to my bandaged wrists.

"Oh," he said. "Are you well, Lothy? You were really badly hurt, weren't you?"

I sat down next to the hobbit, and Éowyn sat down on my left, leaving the last chair empty. I suppressed a grin. "I am very well, Merry," I reassured the hobbit. "Aragorn and Éomer saved my life. Just as you, I'm as good as new. Mistress Ioreth pulled out the stitches yesterday. But she told me to keep the scars bandaged and lathered in salve for a few weeks yet. She thinks the scars won't show as much later if I do that."

Merry gulped at that. I could see fading marks around the hobbit's wrists, too, but they were nothing compared to my scars. Apparently the orcs had treated the hobbits like the treasure they were. I guess I could count myself lucky that those horrible creatures had not raped and devoured me right at Amon Hen. I definitely preferred any amount of scar tissue to being dead and digested by orcs.

A maid-servant interrupted my thoughts with a steaming mug of tírithel. Another set a large plate of scrambled eggs in the center of the table. There was even a small bowl of the first strawberries brought in from the southern coast. As I was helping myself to scrambled eggs and sausages, Faramir entered the kitchen.

His eyes lit up as his gaze met Éowyn's. He positively glowed with happiness at seeing her. And she sighed softly and blushed prettily.

"Mistress Ioreth has decided that I am almost fit for duty again," Faramir told us. "In two or three days I will be able to act as the steward again."

"That's good to hear, my lord," Éowyn told him, her eyes shining.  
"The healers will release you from their care soon, my lady. Don't worry! And for me that will be too soon and I will miss you sorely when you are gone while my duties keep me here," Faramir replied in a deep, warm voice.

_That's what you think…_ But I did not say anything and valiantly suppressed a grin. This was Éowyn's game to play. And play it she would… now I _did_ grin, but only into my cup of tírithel. Who could blame her when betrothal was handled in Rohan and Gondor as in a bad historical romance novel on earth? I certainly didn't. A year and a day with always a chaperone in attendance! Where was the romance in that?  
Probably in escaping those chaperones, I mused. Giving Éowyn a sideways glance, I snorted softly into my cup. Whoever got the job to watch her, had to be pitied…  
How did this Shakespeare quote run? _All's fair in love and war? _  
Something like that.

_Oh, my. They better get a wizard to watch those two._

Merry managed to eat as much as Faramir, Éowyn and I lumped together and still tell me every detail about what had happened to him since we had seen each other the last time.

"I would really like to meet Treebeard," I said when Merry had finished his story. I still can barely believe that the ents are for real.

"Why shouldn't you! On our way back to the Shire we will pass Isengard and that's where he lived for now, guarding that wizard," Merry replied. Then he hesitated and asked with a hint of apprehension in his voice: "Or won't you come back with us to the Shire?"

I looked up at that, somewhat startled. "Ahem," I cleared my throat. "Actually, I haven't thought about where I am going to stay now that the war's over. I have really no idea."

Merry brightened up at that. "You can come and stay with me," Merry offered. "We have some rooms for big people in Buckland."

Éowyn snorted, then started giggling, obviously imagining me in a hobbit hole.  
Faramir softly touched her hand, instantly calming her. Their mutual attraction flashed between them like invisible fire. Merry watched them with his head cocked slightly and a wistful expression on his face. I quickly hid my face in my cup again. I recalled a joke my step-father had always used when I was younger, on watching young lovers in the streets as they kissed and made up: _oh, how lovely love has to be, when I'm grown I'll buy me a pound of love, just for me._

Then Faramir tore his eyes away from the object of his love and desire and smiled at me. "I hope you will stay here, Lothíriel. The least I can do is offering you a home, after all you have done for my brother."

I stared at him, at a loss for words, heat rising to my cheeks.  
"Thank you, my lord," I said finally, my voice trembling a little.

"Faramir," he told me in firm voice.

"Faramir." I was too stunned to answer politely. Living in Minas Tirith! It would be nice to live here. And it was a big city. I would be able to make a living here. Somehow. And Éowyn would be here, too, or rather in Ithilien, but that was not really far. To live in Gondor!

Suddenly I felt a huge smile spreading on my face. "I think I'd like that very much, Faramir. Thank you. Thank you, from the depth of my heart."

"Oh, well," Merry said, a little disappointed. "But you could still visit Treebeard. Now that the war is over, it would not really be dangerous to travel there, wouldn't it?"

That wasn't such a bad idea, actually, I mused. And I would have to pass Edoras on my way, and perhaps meet Éomer…  
Now where had **that** thought come from?

**ooo**

I managed to ignore Éowyn and her match-making-machinations this day and the next.

Mistress Ioreth pronounced Éowyn fit enough to leave the Houses of Healing together with Faramir but to take it easy for one or two days. Faramir took care of that. He showed us the beauty of Minas Tirith.

Although the city was badly damaged by the war, it really was beautiful. And no one knew it better than Faramir, the Steward of Gondor. He also took care that we did not see much of the battle fields, for which I was most grateful. We spent most of our time in the southern part of the city. Walking among the white palaces of the fifth circle of Minas Tirith in the southern part of the town, looking between the white peak of the Mindolluin and the summits of the Emyn Arnen to the green fields on the banks of the Anduin, you could almost forget that there had been a war at all.

The weather was fine those days; we wandered around Minas Tirith under a golden sun and a deep blue sky: with the peace spring had come to Gondor with blooming cherry trees and fragrant pink blossoms on almond-trees, and larks singing their heart out between a few fluffy white clouds.

When we were ready to leave Minas Tirith on the third of April, there was no need to wear a cloak anymore, the weather had turned so warm . I was mounted on Mithril who was eager to run after two days in the stable. Merry was on his pony Stybba who had somehow survived the battle unscathed.

We were not alone on our way, either. We rode with four heavily laden carriages with food and other supplies for the celebration that was to be held on the field of Cormallen in five days.  
The heavy loads accounted for slow progress. We would need two days and a half to reach Cormallen, and the servants and cooks traveling with us were deep in nervous conversation, planning how they should get a feast prepared within two days in field kitchens.  
Apart from servants and cooks, a company of fifteen heavily armed guards rode with the train, and Bergil, the young page that had led me up to the Houses of Healing, was with us, too.

But Éowyn remained in Minas Tirith, just as she had planned. She walked about with a happy smile wreathed on her face and a dreamy expression in her eyes, and now and again she blushed softly for no apparent reason. Faramir was a little better at keeping up an unconcerned, neutral appearance but only a little; he was smiling rather a lot, and his dark grey-blue eyes were sparkling like stars whenever he looked at Éowyn (and he looked at her a lot). Now and again he turned to Éowyn and reached out for her hand, helping her down some stairs or drawing up a chair, swift, small touches, hints of caresses concealed in politeness. Perhaps there was the reason for her blushing…

Both Faramir and Éowyn came to the Great Gates to see us off. A great happiness seemed to shine around them. I looked at Éowyn and raised my eyebrows inquiringly.  
She did not say anything, only smiled a big, happy smile and nodded.


	40. To be in Ithilien

**A/N**: The poem _"Oh, to be in Ithilien"_ is based on the poem _"Oh, to be in England"_ by Robert Browning (1812-1889)

* * *

**oooOooo**

**40. To be in Ithilien**

We rode in silence out of Minas Tirith and across the Fields of the Pelennor.

Our escort was a long line of children and women who were still occupied with carrying stones to the grave mounds at the sides of the road. They had been working steadily during those two days I had spent at Minas Tirith. Now there were not many gaps left among the many grave mounds at the sides of the eastern road. To my relief most of the carrion birds had also left the Pelennor; only a few black crows were still around waiting for their chance. The piles of dead enemies and horses at the edge of the broken eastern wall of the Rammas Echor were burned down to heaps of stinking, smoking black ashes.

As we passed the many grave mounds of white stones to our left and to our right, I saw men and women walking slowly across the fields of the Pelennor with large sacks on their back. Every now and again they bent down, picked something up and threw the item in the sack they carried. Bergil, who was riding next to me on a small black horse, followed my gaze.

"They are picking up broken swords and helms and such," he explained. "The fields have to be tilled and broken armour and weaponry will dull the blade of the plough. Look, over there, at the foot of the Mindolluin they are already at work with a plough!"

He pointed at the north-western edge of the Pelennor. He was right. In the bright spring morning a sturdy farm horse was drawing a plough across violated soil of the Pelennor, a peasant woman walking behind it, holding the reins. Most of the men currently in Minas Tirith were wounded, so it was up to the old, the women and the children to bury the dead and begin the repairs.  
Perhaps the farmer is still with the host and will return, once the celebrations at Cormallen are over, I thought. But at the back of my mind there was this small voice again asking, _who do you think you are kidding?_

Quickly I turned my head away from the scene and stared straight ahead.

I was glad when we finally passed the ruined walls of the Rammas Echor and left the Pelennor behind us.

"Today we ride to Osgiliath," Merry called up to me. He was clad in the white and green livery of a squire of Rohan. I have to admit, he looked the part, too, young and strong – and undeniably handsome. Only when you got close enough to notice his hairy feet with their leathery soles, you realized that he wasn't a boy after all, but something different, a halfling, and a hobbit.  
"At Osgiliath they have ferries ready to transport all that stuff to Cair Andros," he went on. "We can either go with the ferries or ride north on the banks of the Anduin. The guards don't like for us to ride on our own, but they had to admit that it's quite safe now that the war's over. So it's up to you to decide, my lady."

I glared at him. I rode with Merry and Bergil. The young men, hobbit and human, had appointed themselves my escort. They rode on their smaller mounts on either side of me, Merry in the green and white colours of Rohan, Bergil in the black and white of the guards of the citadel. They had taken to calling me 'my lady' and sat very straight and proud in their saddles. _A noble lady and her escort…_

The only thing that did not fit the image of two young noble squires riding with their lady was me. Not the horse, of course. Mithril was as gorgeous as ever, the horse of a queen, an image straight from a fairy tale, silver-white, strong and beautiful.

But I only looked the way I always do. Even when I'm at my best I look only _pretty_, a young woman with a curvy figure and long brown hair, nothing special in any way. But at the moment I looked rather more like a ragamuffin gipsy of a messenger girl and certainly not a noble lady. I had become very thin during the last months. It was an interesting experience to actually feel too thin. And I did. I felt all bony and angular. The green tunic I wore was faded at the edges, the jeans were almost white with wear and their fabric had grown so flimsy at the knees and the thighs that I knew I would not be able to wear them for much longer and be decently attired. Then there were those bandages around my wrists, streaked with dirt after only a few hours' ride, still giving me what I called in my mind the "failed suicide look".

I had also made the mistake of looking in a mirror in the Houses of Healing when I was dressed and ready to go this morning. Well, there was nothing to be done about it. I would have to concentrate on the green of my tunic, which brought out a rather interesting deep green hue in my eyes that I had noticed before. I would simply have to live with that scar. At least it had healed in a neat white line. That orc scar, a nice straight cut delivered by a scimitar. A neat, white line across my right jaw, parts of my throat and hidden under my tunic, right across my left breast. I tried to take some comfort in the fact that my hair had grown a fair bit and with no hair dryers to dry it smoothly, it had developed some sort of natural waves. No real curls, but at least some waves. As I had been able to wash my hair thoroughly the night before, I had let my hair down this morning and the soft spring breeze swept it up from my shoulder now and again.  
But you can see that all in all my appearance was not really up to creating an image of a noble lady escorted by two pretty young squires…

Oh, well. What did it matter? There was no one around to really look at me, or, horror of horrors, take a picture. As we slowly rode towards Osgiliath, I observed the shadows of our horses and their riders on the ground to our left. The shadows were – at least where I was concerned – better than the real thing. They looked pretty beautiful in fact, the horses and the silhouettes of Merry and Bergil with their helms and their swords jutting out at their hips, and Mithril's great shadow and my hair blowing in the wind.

**ooo**

Osgiliath was a shock.

I should have expected it, of course.  
Osgiliath had been overrun by the enemy. There was not as much as two stones left standing of the entire city. Everything was in a rubble of broken, smoke-blackened stones and burned beams of wood.

As on the fields of the Pelennor, here, too, were grave mounds of white stones at the sides of the road, where the fallen fighters of the West had been buried. At a fair distance from the city, there was a circle of ashes on the ground, from where the wind carried the stink of death and flesh burned to charcoal up to us.

However, as the city had been left to the enemy, there were not as many white mounds as there were on the Pelennor. Only when the ring had been destroyed, Osgiliath had been retaken by the armies of the West. With their leader destroyed, the heart had left the enemies still barricaded in Osgiliath, and the city could be reclaimed with almost no casualties on the side of the allied troops.

The quays of Osgiliath had already been restored, and now three large ferries were waiting in the blue floods of the Anduin to be loaded with goods to be shipped up to Cair Andros and the field of Cormallen.

We stayed in army tents for the night, waiting for the loading of the ferries to be completed.  
In the morning we rose with the dawn and had a sparse breakfast with a strong kettle of tírithel and some grey bread. Then we had to decide whether to go accompany the supplies on the ferries, or cross the Anduin and ride to Cormallen on our own. The guards wanted us to go with the ferry. I did not like ferries. I would have preferred to ride.

"Well, my lady," Bergil asked. "What shall we do? Shall we go with the ferries or try the bridge?"

The bridge in question was a make-shift, swimming bridge of beams that were haphazardly tied together and kept afloat with many empty barrels fastened to their sides. The stone bridge of Osgiliath had been destroyed in the battle. I pursed my lips. The Anduin was too deep, and its currents were far too strong to be swum across. I did not like the look of the bridge. It was swaying this way and that, sometimes dipping into the water. Would it even hold Mithril's weight?

I sighed. I don't like ferries. "Let's try to get the horses on the ferry."

**ooo**

But this was easier said than done.

Mithril did not like the ferry. It took us more than an hour of soothing and many kind words in Sindarin and Westron to persuade her to walk up the plank and onto the ferry.  
Once on the ferry, she kept snorting and tossing her head and stepping closer and closer to me, so that she almost threw me into the water trying to seek shelter in my arms.  
It took a long time to calm her down.

But finally the lines were loosened. Sails were unfurled, caught the wind and we were off. The Anduin is broad enough for regular ships up to Cair Andros but sailing it is difficult. Its currents are strong, and the wind can turn suddenly. But we were lucky. The wind was strong that spring and blew steadily from the south-west, driving the ferries smoothly against the currents and up the river towards Cair Andros.

Nevertheless it was not a comfortable voyage as Mithril could not be left alone, at least during the first day on the river. The swaying motion of the ship frightened her, so I had to stay with her all the time and soothe her.

I did not blame her. I did not much like the ferry either. But around midnight that first day of the river, I was so hoarse that I could barely croak from whispering Sindarin encouragements to the horse. I finally fell asleep curled around Mithril's legs. I am really lucky that the voyage ran smoothly, or I would have been trampled to death by my own horse's hooves. But I was lucky. Nothing happened that night. I slept soundly and – Eru be praised! – did not dream.

In the morning I was woken by soft horse breath blowing warmly on my neck.

This second day of our voyage Mithril was much calmer. She seemed to think that if she had survived one night on this swaying horror, she would survive the rest of the voyage, too.  
Boy, was I grateful!

**ooo**

The voyage was pleasant from then on. I sat with Bergil and Merry at the bow of the ferry and watched the shores of Ithilien float by.

Ithilien is a beautiful land, a green land of hills and dells and meadows. As Sauron had gained control of it only in the last months, he had not been able to destroy its beauty. Now with spring in full sway, it was truly fair. I saw soft green hills grown with cherry trees and apple trees clad bridal white with an abundance of blossoms. There were also many sweet smelling almond-trees adding their pink colour to the white, and alders added their own heady perfume to the soft airs of spring. Light copses of wood grew here and there in small dells and hollows, beech trees and ashes and alders, their young leaves unfolding in a soft green-gold fuzz. I realized that apart from occasional holly trees, there were no needle trees in this land at all, and the leaved trees were all of a kind known even on earth for their power to guard against black magic. I realized that Ithilien was nothing so much as a living shelter against the darkness that had lain hidden behind the dark slopes of the Ephel Dúath in the east.  
I inhaled the golden air of spring, tasting its sweetness, the warm breeze stroking my cheeks and I sighed in contentment. A memory of an English spring poem by Browning stirred in my mind, and changing some lines to adapt it to Ithilien, I smiled at the passing willows and the cherry, apple and almond trees covered in clouds of white and pink blossoms and recited the lines that I remembered:

_"Oh, to be in Ithilien  
Now that April's there,  
And whoever wakes in Ithilien  
Sees, some morning unaware,  
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf  
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,  
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough  
To be in Ithil – now!"_

Merry and Bergil clapped their hands.  
"That's pretty," Bergil said. "And I don't know it at all. Who is the poet?"  
I blushed and cleared my throat. "It's an adaptation from a poem of my home. I just felt it suits Ithilien very well."  
Bergil smiled. "Yes, it does. I really hope they will rebuild Osgiliath. I'd like to be stationed there. It's nicer with the river and the woods than Minas Tirith, where you have all the houses and the mountain's shadow around you."

He was right, I thought. Though I, for my part, decided that I would really like to see Edoras in spring and the vast plains of Rohan all covered with fresh green growth. But Minas Tirith was beautiful, too, and would be even more beautiful, once the destruction of war had been cleared away and the houses and gardens would be rebuilt.

**ooo**

We reached Cair Andros and the field of Cormallen in the evening of the fifth of April.

The sun was setting in bright colours of red and gold and orange, the twilight not black but blue, deep indigo and Prussian blue settling on the floods of the Anduin and growing under the trees of Ithilien's woods.

Cair Andros is an island in the Anduin, shaped like a ship and fortified against the enemy in the east. It is a great castle built of grey stones set in the rushing blue currents of the Anduin.  
It is awesome, and its towers rise high in the sky. From its highest tower you have the most awesome view of Anórien, Ithilien and Minas Tirith at the southern horizon.

But when we arrived, we did not moor at the quays of that island-fortress. We turned to the eastern banks of the Anduin. Just north of where the river Andros joins the Anduin there are quays built into the banks of the Anduin. In past days the boats carrying supplies for Henneth Annûn anchored here. Now we moored there, bringing supplies and provisions for the celebration of our victory against Sauron.

As soon as the plank touched the stone of the quays, Mithril freed her reins from my grasp, took a mighty leap and jumped ashore, neighing and snorting and dancing nervously. I ran after her and managed to regain hold of her reins. Whispering soothing Sindarin endearments to her, I allowed her to get rid off her anxiety before pulling slightly on her reins, drawing her close to me. I softly blew on her muzzle and stroked her beautiful head. Gradually calming down she snorted at me, mingling her warm, humid horse-breath with my own breathing. Soothing Mithril in that way had become quite natural for me by now. In fact I felt just as soothed by this procedure as the horse was.  
Suddenly I felt the tiny hairs at the back of my neck prickle. I felt as if there was someone standing behind me, watching me. I turned around, and felt my heart speed up. There was someone behind me. Éomer was standing in the shadow of a large elm tree above the quays, no doubt drawn to the river by the voice of the Meara and her antics.

Éomer had changed since I had seen him the last time. Grief and pain had added a certain harshness to his features. His hair curled down to his shoulders, a mixture of dun and gold, his eyes were dark and deep. He had grown a beard that was not very tidily kept and shimmered in a slightly darker hue than the rest of his hair.

He was staring at me with amazement in his eyes.  
I whispered to Mithril to behave and bowed deeply. "Your royal highness."  
To my surprise and intense embarrassment, Éomer bowed to me in return. "My Lady Lothíriel. How wonderful to see you!"

His voice had changed, too. It was a little husky, not quite as liquid as it had been. But perhaps even more beautiful, like velvet rubbing across your bare skin.

I swallowed hard. "It's good to see you, too, my lord. Your highness."  
"Where is my sister, pray, where is Éowyn? I hoped she was well enough to come for the celebrations?" he asked, his voice filled with worry.  
"Don't worry, my lord, your highness. Éowyn is well. I carry a message from her to you. She is fine, but she does not feel up to songs and rejoicing yet."

I held out her message to her brother. It was only a small piece of parchment, sealed in red with the horse head of Rohan clearly visible.  
Éomer broke the seal and quickly scanned the letter. When he raised his head his eyes suddenly glittered with unshed tears.  
"Did you know?" he asked, his voice filled with joy.  
I smiled back at him. "Yes, your highness, I did. Your sister is my friend. But it is not the place of a friend to give such news to the brother."  
He smiled at me, and that smile took away the lines in his face, the hard experiences of war, showing him for a moment as the young man that he was. "But what happy news this is! It comforts my heart greatly! And I am happy to see you and see you well!"  
I blushed and bowed my head. "Thank you, your highness," I mumbled.  
"Don't call me that, please, as a friend of my sister you should call me by my name, just as she does. And those strange titles make any conversation uncomfortable," he said, reaching out for my hands to take Mithril's reins from me.

When his fingers touched my hands, I felt a tingling sensation spread through my body. He hesitated for an instance, dark eyes searching for mine. I quickly looked away, exhaling the breath I had been holding in a soft sigh.

"May I help you with Mithril? I know where Shadowfax is quartered, she should feel glad of her sire's company, methinks," his voice was dark and soft as the deepening twilight around us.  
"Gladly, sire," I answered.  
"Éomer," he insisted.

I felt heat rise in my cheeks. Not enough that I knew real nobility in Middle-earth that should be addressed with the most extraordinary titles. Now all of them seemed to insist on me addressing them with their personal names. How should I ever get used to Gondorian or Rohirric etiquette that way?

"Try it. Please, my lady. It's easy. Say it for me. Say my name!" Éomer repeated.

Why was it so important to him to hear his name?  
I looked into his eyes. His eyes were a really dark brown. A rich dark brown like the darkest chocolate, or a shadowy pool under tall green trees. There was a hint of pleading in his eyes, a sense of loss. Suddenly I understood. He had ridden to war as the heir to the throne. Now the war was won, and he was king. His old life was over, just as the war was. But he – his sense of himself – was still lost somewhere in the turmoil of these dark days.

"Éomer," I said. And again. "Éomer."

Something like relief spread across Éomer's face. A hint of a smile crept back to his lips. I felt an answering smile light my own face.

"And would you say my name, too?" I asked and regretted it instantly. What did I think I was playing at?

Éomer looked at me for a long moment, his eyes dark and calm.

"Lothíriel," he said softly and his husky voice felt like a subtle caress running down my back.

**ooo**

The field of Cormallen is a triangular piece of land between the banks of the Anduin to the west and the south and the small stream of the river Andros flowing down from the hidden pool of Henneth Annûn. It is also called "Field of Gold" because it is surrounded by culumalda trees. Culumalda are the golden beeches of Ithilien. In spring the fuzz on their leaves is pale golden, and their blossoms are yellow. In summer the undersides of the leaves are silver-golden and the upper sides are green, veined in gold. But in the autumn the leaves turn to a deep golden hue. They fall to the ground as all leaves of all trees do outside of Lórien, but neither rain nor snow will turn them brown. The field of Cormallen thus stays golden until May when the new grass reaches higher than the leaves left on the ground from the previous year.

This was the field that was being prepared for the celebrations.  
There were the large tents and rich pavilions where the king of Gondor and the leaders of the Host of the West resided, Aragorn, Éomer, Gandalf, Prince Imrahil, the sons of Elrond and Haldir, the captain of the Galadhrim archers, the most noble among them.

The remains of the Host of the West were camped a few yards north of Cormallen on a wide green meadow above the Anduin. Of the seven thousand warriors that had set out for the Morannon only three thousand had survived. Later I learned that of the fifteen thousand fighters that had joined in the Host of the West at Minas Tirith only six thousand and eight hundred returned home. During the actual battles every second fighter was killed, and many more died later from their wounds.

But of this I knew nothing as Éomer led me to the field of Cormallen that evening. I only saw brightly lit tents on the meadow above the Anduin and many colourful banners streaming above the tents in the wind. I saw the shapes of men and elves sitting around the camp fires in the growing twilight. Songs filled the air. Some were hymns sung in the pure, clear voices of elves; others held the darker harmonies of human songs.

The war was won, and hope was in the air with the sweet, sweet fragrance of spring.

As we neared the pavilions and tents of the leaders of the West, Mithril neighed suddenly. It sounded as if she called out to a friend. A moment later another horse neighed in answer from not very far away. It was Shadowfax, of course, who had been grazing among the culumalda behind Gandalf's tent.

Now he came running towards us and eagerly greeted his daughter and fellow Meara.

I smiled at the sight. "They seem to have a lot to talk about," I commented.  
"And why shouldn't they?" Éomer said. "So much has happened since they saw each other the last time." Somehow I had the feeling that he was talking not only about the horses.

"Come, I will help you with Mithril." Éomer told me, and quickly unsaddled the mare.

Working together we had her brushed and her hooves cleaned in a matter of twenty minutes.  
It never occurred to me to wonder why a king might do such work by himself, alone in the twilight with a young woman. I did mention that I am a little stupid sometimes, didn't I?

When we had finished, we watched as Mithril eagerly turned towards her sire, and soon the two horses were standing head against tail, keeping flies away and rubbing each other's side in the comfortable caresses of horses that like each other and have a lot to talk about.

"May I escort you to the pavilion of the king now? I think there are some people waiting for you there, my lady Lothíriel," Éomer held out his arm to me.  
"Oh yes." I felt my cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. For a time I had completely forgotten about the message I carried. "And I have a message for the Prince Imrahil from his wife. He is alright, isn't he? He is alive?"  
"Yes, he is, alive and well, a great hero of the war. Your message will be safely delivered in a few minutes. Now, come, my lady Lothíriel. You have to be hungry and weary after a long day on the river."

Éomer led me to the largest tent at the back of the field of Cormallen. A large banner set with stars flowed above it in the soft breeze. In the antechamber of the tent there was a table laid out with porcelain bowls and ewers with hot and cold water and perfumed soaps.  
I washed away the dust and sweat of voyage and horse-cleaning with sighs of pleasure.  
Éomer also washed his hands and face (without sighing). When I was finished with my ablutions, I discovered that Éomer was waiting for me. His hair, now dark and damp, curled around his cheeks and jaws. I drew a shaky breath.

There was something about Éomer that was definitely disconcerting.

A servant in the black and white livery of Minas Tirith slipped through the heavy blue drapes that separated the antechamber from the main room of the tent and bowed respectfully to us. "My lady, your highness, the King awaits you."

Excitement swept through me and made me tremble all over.

It did not help that Éomer chose that moment to take my hand in order to lead me into the main room of the tent. "Come, my lady Lothíriel. There's no reason to be nervous. After all you have travelled long weeks in the company of the King."

Drawn aside by servants, the heavy blue curtains parted before us to admit us to the tent of the king.

It was the fifth of April and I had arrived at the Field of Cormallen.

**oooOooo**

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JunoMagic


	41. Fields of Gold

**A/N:** The song to go with this chapter is Sting's "Fields of Gold"

* * *

******oooOooo**  


**41. Fields of Gold**

"My lords, Éomer King and Lady Lothíriel," the servant announced, then bowed and stepped aside to allowing us to enter the tent.

The royal tent was large and comfortable. There was a deep blue carpet on the floor and at the sides of the tent were iron braziers filled with glowing embers, creating a warm and soothing atmosphere in the tent. The tent was filled with bright light from several polished brass oil lamps that were suspended from the ceiling. There was a large wooden table and several comfortable chairs with cushions matching the colour of the carpet.

Gathered around the table and a jug of wine were several people I knew. At one end of the table sat Haldir, and with him were the sons of Elrond. Gandalf, Prince Imrahil, Legolas and Gimli were engaged in a game of cards at the other end of the table.

As Éomer King and I entered the tent, all talk stopped, all eyes were suddenly directed at us.  
I do not think that I blushed, after all, there was no reason for that. But I did feel discomfited by that sudden attention of kings, elves, warriors and wizard.

Kings: Aragorn sat in a comfortable chair away from the table, close to the brazier at the right hand side of the tent. He had his long legs stretched out before him and was smoking his pipe.  
He looked relaxed and not all that different from the ranger I had known on the way from Bree to Gondor. His clothing had changed, though. He was dressed in expensive – and clean – clothes now. New black leather trousers hugging his lean, muscular legs, a silken grey shirt and a richly embroidered tunic, black with silver and gold. His hair was clean and held back at the nape of his neck in a silver brooch. Creature comforts for the king. But his face was just as it had always been. Clear cut, weather-beaten features, keen grey eyes, sensitive line of mouth. He smiled at me as I entered the tent and rose from his chair, walking forward to greet me.

Éomer released my arm and stepped to the side. _Greetings, Lothíriel… a greeting that is fit for a king… _I settled for bowing deeply. I may not be up to any graceful curtsies, but I **do** know how to bow. So I bowed deeply to the King of Gondor.  
Warm, callused fingers gripped my hands. The nail was missing from Aragorn's right thumb, and three other nails were black and blue.

Aragorn drew me up from my bow. "That is not necessary, Lothíriel."  
I raised my head to look up into Aragorn's face. I felt a smile spread across my face. To see him as the King! As the victorious king! I felt my heart leap with joy. How happy Arwen would be!

Out loud I said, "But you are the king, your royal highness."

Behind me I heard Éomer chuckle and the sound of his low laughter sent a shiver down my spine.

Aragorn raised his eyebrows. "I am not yet crowned. And even then, we've come too long a way together for titles and bows between us. So, please, just take my hand as you did before and call me Aragorn."  
I blushed.  
What was there to do but graciously accept the honour I had been awarded?  
Nothing.  
So I took the offered hand and shook it, my cheeks flushed with heat. "Aragorn, then. It's an honour to be here. Thank you very much."  
Aragorn shook his head. "You have earned the right to be here just like everyone else in this room. If you had not ridden like the wind to summon the forces of the south-western provinces, the war might easily have been lost."

I felt my head would burst, so hot grew my cheeks at this praise. "'Twas nothing," I mumbled. "And you'd have to thank Mithril for that, not me. It was her speed that got me to Tarnost in time."

This reminded me of the other message I carried. I turned to the table and bowed again.  
"My Lord Prince," I said politely. I know you should never interrupt a game of cards, but I had a message to deliver. Prince Imrahil laid down his cards and smiled. His pale golden hair had been braided down his back. His strange light grey eyes were piercing, his expression grave, but his gaze was friendly all the same. Now, with elves present for comparison the elvish blood in the line of Dol Amroth was all the more obvious, rounded ears notwithstanding.

"My Lord Prince, I ride to you with a message from your wife. She follows behind me with her entourage as soon as possible." I pulled out the envelope with Míriël's seal and signature and offered it to the Prince of Dol Amroth. His eyes shone like stars as he saw the signature.  
"She will be so happy to find you well, my lord," I said.

_Should I ask for his other sons? Elphir, Erchirion and Amrothos, who had fought with their father at Minas Tirith and at the Morannon?_ But looking at the sombre face of the Prince, I did not dare to ask.

Gandalf sighed and put his cards down, too. "I guess that's it then for our game. There's no way we will win that game with your mind on that love letter, Imrahil."  
Imrahil gave the wizard a faint smile. "I'm afraid you are right, my friend. If you would excuse me? My lords, my lady?" The Prince of Dol Amroth rose, indicated a bow and left the tent, obviously eager to read his lady's letter.

Legolas and Gimli put down their cards, too, and came round the table.

Legolas extended his hands in the traditional greeting of the elves. He was quite disconcerted when I simply hugged him.

Gimli, however, had no such compunctions. I went down on my knees and was squeezed in a tight, hairy embrace. "It's good to have you back, Lothy," he said in a gruff voice.

Then I found myself in a completely unexpected embrace. White robes, white hair and the smell of pipe tobacco. "I'm proud of you, Lothíriel," Gandalf said in his scratchy wizard's voice. I felt tears well up in my eyes and blinked furiously. I was so happy to see them all, alive and well. _All of them? _

"Where are Frodo and Sam? And how are the sons of Prince Imrahil? I did not dare to ask just now," I whispered, my throat constricting.  
"Frodo and Sam are well. Both of them," he answered calmly. "As well as they will ever be. But they are wounded and weak. They are in the care of the Lady Elaine, fast asleep, both of them. I don't think they will wake long before the feast. Now, don't worry, Lothy. They only need rest. The sons of Imrahil…" Gandalf sighed. "Elphir is alive and unhurt. The other two are dead. Killed at the Morannon."  
"Oh, God," I whispered. I was relieved to hear that my friends were alive, but I felt devastated to hear of the death of the Lady Míriël' sons. In the short time I knew her, I had come to like her very much.

"I will not say, do not grieve, Lothíriel. But you should find comfort in the fact that their death was not in vain. Now I think there are some others who want to greet you, little one." Gandalf gave me a rather bristly kiss on my cheek, and then released me.

Elrond's sons and Haldir had been waiting patiently for their turn to greet me.  
To my absolute surprise Elrohir embraced me. Now, being embraced by an elf is extraordinary, even if it is only a friendly greeting. They feel all silky and liquid; it feels almost as if they touch you inside your skin.

It was probably this strange feeling that made me blurt out the first thing that came to my mind just then. "Gods, I will miss you guys, when you go off for Aman."  
Elladan and Haldir offered the traditional elvish greeting that, both hands extended, go for the elbows kind of greeting. It was Elladan who answered me, "It will be many years yet until we leave, Lothíriel. I don't think that you will have the time to miss us."  
Elrohir turned to his brother, glowering. "You do realize what you just said, do you, Elladan?"  
It was a rare treat to watch Elladan thinking, then blushing hotly right to the tips of his pointy ears. "Forgive me, my lady," he mumbled.  
I suppressed a laughter that was bubbling up inside of me. "I don't mind, Elladan. It's only the truth, after all. And I am really glad that you at least will stay in Middle-earth for some time yet."

"Now that all feet are again out of the respective mouths and firmly on the ground, how about sitting down and having another jug of mulled wine?" Gandalf asked, looking expectantly at Aragorn.  
Aragorn groaned. "Seeing that you won't go away without another round," he said, turning to the servant who was standing unobtrusively at the entrance. "Another jug of the mulled red Dorwinion, and perhaps some fruit, bread and cheese. If you see Merry and Pippin, tell them they are invited to come and join us."  
The servant bowed and disappeared.

Suddenly Éomer was back at my side. "Would you grant me the honour and the joy to sit at my side, my lady Lothíriel?" Those dark eyes, I thought. And that voice.  
"Just Lothíriel," I objected.  
"Lothíriel?" he repeated softly.  
"He is asking you to sit down at the table at his side." The voice of Gimli came from the vicinity of my right elbow, talking in an exaggerated slow manner, as if he was talking to a small and not too bright child.  
Éomer glared at the dwarf.  
I giggled. And allowed Éomer to lead me to the table.

When we were seated, the curtains parted again and Imrahil, Pippin and Merry entered the tent, followed closely by two servants bearing huge trays with wine, bread, cheese and fruit.  
After hugging Pippin and being kissed soundly, and wetly, on both cheeks by the hobbit, wine was poured all around.

When every goblet was filled with warm wine, Aragorn raised his glass in a toast.  
He only said one word. But this word was enough. I felt my eyes well up, and a few teardrops slowly slid down my cheeks. I did not care but raised my glass with the others, elves, hobbits, dwarf, men, smiling with happiness and gratefulness.

Clear voices, dark voices, bright voices mingled in that word, as they repeated Aragorn's toast:

"Friends!"

**ooo**

The sixth and seventh of April was spent in a flurry of preparations for the feast.  
The celebrations would begin with a parade with Frodo and Sam taking the salute.  
Then a minstrel would sing their praise, singing and playing for the first time the ballad of "Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom". 

I don't know who's responsible for that stupid title, but the song is very beautiful.

After the praise, there was to be a celebratory dinner for all of the three thousand surviving fighters from the Host of the West and everyone who had made it from Minas Tirith or even farther away in time for the celebration. After the dinner music and dancing would follow.  
At midnight the lament for the dead would be held and afterwards there would be more singing and dancing, all night through.  
At three o'clock in the morning the official celebrations would be ended with a firework by Gandalf.

No wonder that the field of Cormallen teemed like an ant heap.

At the centre of the field of Cormallen many smooth boards of wood were placed together to create a dance floor, with a small open pavilion put up at the wide end of the clearing for the musicians.

At the sharp southern angle of the field, in front of the pavilions and tents of the commanders and the nobility, a wooden dais was erected, and three thrones were placed on it. Behind the thrones three long spears were set into fixtures and below the spearheads banners were attached. The banner on the right showed a white horse in full gallop on a green field. The banner on the left was silver on blue and it showed a silver ship with a swan rising up from its bow. The banner above the highest throne was black with a design of mithril silver. It showed a crown and seven glittering stars. The colours of the king.

Around the dance floor enough space was left for the host to assemble if in rather tight lines.  
From the branches of the culumalda trees, many lanterns with white candles were suspended, and underneath them open white tents were placed with many long tables and benches for the celebratory dinner. But they had a special table ready for the guests of honour that would be set up on the dais after the song of praise.

Thinking about that my stomach filled with butterflies. As Éomer's dinner partner and member of the fellowship, I was counted among the guests of honour.  
At the end of the tables two richly carved, throne-like chair padded with exquisitely embroidered cushions would be placed for Frodo and Sam.  
On one side of the table Míriël – who had arrived just in time for the celebration, riding with only two bodyguards from Minas Tirith – would sit next to Prince Imrahil. Then came Aragorn, Éomer and next to Éomer would be my place.  
On the other side of the table, it would be Gandalf sitting next to Frodo, then Elladan and Elrohir, Haldir, Legolas and Gimli. Pippin and Merry insisted on serving as squires.

In the evening of the seventh of April, I collapsed on the bed in the tent I was sharing with Míriël, feeling exhausted. I had been running around all day helping with the various odds and ends of the preparations, taking messages, giving opinions about the arrangements of tables and menus, greeting dignitaries. Now my feet hurt and I felt quite dazed.

Then I jumped up with an oath on my lips that I will not repeat in writing.  
I had realized somewhat belatedly that I had nothing to wear for the morning.  
At least nothing appropriate.

"What's the matter, Lothíriel?" Míriël called from the second chamber of the tent.

I was to dine with kings and I had nothing to wear! I am really not a vain woman, but this was enough to make even me wail in desperation.

"I just realized, I have nothing to wear tomorrow, oh, gods, Míriël, I can't go to that dinner wearing jeans!" I pointed at my threadbare blue jeans.  
Míriël had poked her head through the drapes and was now looking at my trousers with considerable interest.  
"So that's what they are called," she commented calmly.  
"You don't understand," I wailed. "I have nothing to wear! And I have agreed to be Éomer's dinner partner!"

Míriël entered my chamber of the tent and took me in her arms. "Shh, don't worry, sweet."  
For a moment I allowed her to hold me, then I drew away, feeling suddenly ashamed that I had behaved so silly in the presence of a mother who had just recently lost two sons. She did not show her grief. If she had cried, she had done that alone, where no one had noticed. Today the only indication of the suffering she had to experience were faint dark shadows under her eyes, and a graveness to her clear, grey gaze. She looked at me and smiled.

In a soft, but nevertheless highly amused tone, she told me: "But you have something to wear. Don't you remember that I took your measurements in Dol Amroth? It's not very extravagant, but it is new. And I think it's an interesting style."  
"What is an interesting style?"  
"This." The lady of Dol Amroth placed a package of soft fabric in my arms. "Try it on. Let's see if it fits of if I have to make some last minute adjustments."

With trembling fingers I laid the clothes out on my bed and gasped.

They were beautiful!

There were tight fitting black leggings, a black silk shirt, and to wear above it a gown of a deep green fabric. The fabric was soft and heavy and shimmering subtly. It had no sleeves and was slit at the sides. It was embroidered at the edges in black with small green pearls worked in at regular intervals. A black leather belt, black leather slippers with green pearls at the laces, and a clasp with green pearls to tie back my hair went with the outfit.  
It fit me perfectly.

Yes, I did bawl again.

**ooo**

The next morning Míriël helped me to get ready for the celebrations. Her assistance included body lotion, perfume and make up.

I was at least able to help her with her bodice. She wore a formal gown with a tight silvery bodice that had to be laced at the back and a wide flaring skirt. Her long black hair she braided only partly, then fastened it with silver needles to the back of her head, with enticing tendrils curling along her slender neck. She was beautiful!  
But when I was ready, I did not look all that bad either.  
That green gown, and the golden-green eye-shadow Míriël had put on me, brought out green-golden sparks in my eyes that I had never noticed before.

We were ready just in time.

**ooo**

It was a beautiful day.

The sun shone warm and golden. The air was soft and sweet with spring.  
The Field of Cormallen was decked out with garlands of scarlet, white and pink blossoms. The ground of the clearing was covered with culumalda leaves gleaming golden in the sunlight. White and black streamers, the colours of Minas Tirith flowed above the tents all around the clearing. The banners above the three thrones moved lightly in the breeze.

Aragorn, Éomer and Imrahil had taken seat on the thrones. To the right of the thrones I stood in a line with the surviving members of the fellowship. Legolas wore the green livery of Erin Lasgalen, Gimli was clad in bright silver mail. Merry was dressed as a squire of Rohan and Pippin wore the black and white livery of the Citadel of Minas Tirith.

In the pavilion the musicians had gathered already. In front of the pavilion, three heralds in the black and white colours of Gondor stood with golden clarions in their hands, ready to sound the signal for the parade to begin.

In front of the Field of Cormallen, the Host of the West was assembled on the banks of the Anduin.

It was an awesome sight.

More than four thousand warriors were assembled there, the three thousand men that had survived the battle at the Morannon and a thousand fighters that had come from Minas Tirith for the celebration. They were clothed in the brightest mail, the colours of the various uniforms mingling in a kaleidoscope of blue and green and black and white and silver.

The companies stood in orderly ranks, all of them fierce and proud fighters, men and even some women. In front of their companies stood the captains with their squires and the standard bearers.

Many were the banners that streamed in the wind above the Anduin that day!  
Beautiful!  
Bright!  
Proud!

Closest to the Field of Cormallen was the company of elvish archers under the command of the March Warden, Haldir of Lórien. With them stood the company of the Dúnedain of the North, clothed in grey, but Elladan and Elrohir at the front of them were clad in silver mail. Elrohir carried the banner of Imladris and Elladan that of the Dúnedain.

Next to them were _éored_, the companies of the Riders of the Rohan on their proud destriers. Erkenbrand was their captain, his squire was Aelfriv, and Frohwein carried the standard with the white horse on the green field.

Then followed the foot-soldiers and knights of Dol Amroth in their uniforms of blue and silver, led by Elphir, the oldest son of Imrahil, who looked exactly like his mother and was seven years my senior. Next to them came the black and white companies of Minas Tirith, and then all the other companies and groups that had fought in the war.

On the opposite side of the encampment all the others had gathered, healers and servants, nobles and dignitaries, but also many wives and children who had somehow come here from Minas Tirith for the celebrations.

Everyone was quiet, and waiting.  
The only sound was the rushing voice of the Anduin and the brighter sound of the falling water of the Andros behind the field of Cormallen, and the song of many birds greeting the sun and the spring in the culumalda trees.

We were waiting for Gandalf to lead Frodo and Sam to the Field of Cormallen.

Frodo and Sam had been in the quiet tents of the healers at the end of the encampment, in the soothing shadows of dark leaved trees with scarlet blossoms.

I strained my eyes to catch sight of the wizard and the hobbits.

**ooo**

They had to come forwards any moment now.

There!

An old man clothed in white robes and carrying a tall white staff walked slowly through the encampment. Behind him followed hesitatingly two small figures dressed in black rags, but under the tattered clothing of the taller one gleamed the bright silver of a fine mail shirt.

Gandalf.  
Sam.  
Frodo.

The heralds put their instruments to their lips. Bright and clear the clarions sounded.  
As one the warriors of the West drew their swords in salute. In glittering ranks the fighters of the Host of the West stood arrayed.

Colourful in their best garments were the men, women and children on the other side of the clearing that had gathered to cheer the two hobbits who had saved the world.

When Frodo and Sam approached the ranks of the gathered warriors and colourful crowd of onlookers, the clarions sounded again, and a great cheer of many voices went up all around.

Old voices, young voices, bright voices, dark voices, rough, beautiful, crying, screaming, shouting for joy, in Westron, in Sindarin, in Dwarvish and in German.

_"Long live the Halflings! Praise them with great praise!"  
"Frodo! Sam!"  
"Praise them!"  
"Eglerio!"_

Gandalf led the hobbits across the dance floor and onto the dais.

They still looked very frail and weary, but their cheeks were flushed and their eyes were bright.

When they had reached the centre of the dais, Gandalf walked over to the fellowship, taking up his position next to me.

The hobbits stood very still on the dais for a moment, looking bewildered back at the long lines of warriors and onlookers, then back at the thrones.  
It was Frodo who first realized that it was indeed Aragorn who sat on the highest throne, I could see how his eyes widened in amazement, and his mouth formed a small 'o' of surprise.  
Then he ran towards Aragorn, who had just barely the time to put his sword away that he had raised in salute with the other warriors. But then Aragorn was down on his knees and embraced Frodo with tears in his eyes.  
And when Aragorn released Frodo, he took the hands of both Frodo and Sam and led them to his throne and made them sit down on it.  
When they were settled, Aragorn walked over towards us and took his place as the leader of the fellowship he had become after Moria.

Again the clarions sounded.  
The music struck up. Drums rolled and trumpets sounded.

In a parade of victory and glory, the companies that had fought against Sauron and prevailed marched across the Field of Cormallen to the dais. There they presented their weapons to Frodo and Sam and knelt down before them. Rising up, they closed ranks to the sides of the field, their leaders and standard bearers at the front of their rows.

Behind them the crowd of onlookers gathered and when the last small company of fighters from the hills of Lamedon had taken their place at the edge of the clearing, the onlookers, men, women and children, all and one, knelt down and bent their heads before the hobbits, too.

Then Aragorn called out, and his voice was so loud and clear that everyone could understand his words, even at the far end of the field.

"Now praise them with great praise!"**  
**

**ooo**

At this call a minstrel in the colours of Gondor stepped out on the floor.

He was an old man with a mane of straggling, grey hair and blinded eyes. His left hand had apparently suffered a grievous wound in the war, but he held his harp proudly.

Silence fell.

The bard turned his blind eyes up to the sun and raising his harp, his voice rang clear and deep across the Field of Gold.

"Lo! Lords and knights and men of valour unashamed, kings and princes, fair ladies, people of Gondor, Riders of Rohan, archers of Lórien, and ye sons of Elrond, and Dúnedain of the North, Elf and Dwarf, Lothíriel of Erlangen and greathearts of the Shire, and all free folk of the West, now listen to my lay. For I will sing to you of Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom."

I looked over at the hobbits to see their reactions. Frodo looked stunned, but Sam was laughing with bliss and delight.

All over the field, warriors, men, women and children, elves, dwarf and hobbits were laughing and weeping and clapping.

Then the bard struck a chord.  
At once the field was silent again.

The voice of the old bard rose like silver and gold, flying like an eagle high into the sky. Never before and never after have I heard such a beautiful voice. It was a voice beyond human ability. Now mellow and soft, then metallic like a trumpet. He sang now in Westron, then in Sindarin. The Field of Gold was overflowing with the sound. Picking up the shards of war and agony that still pierced the souls of many gathered round, the Harper reached out for the pain and moulded it into divine harmony. The song went straight to the heart of even the hardest warrior on the field, and healed it. The music swept us away, one and all, from the lowliest servant to the lordliest elf and the King himself. His harp sang of sorrow and solace and carried us far away from this Field of Gold. Far above this earth, the past war and all our fates, until our souls reached that intangible sphere somewhere over the rainbow, where pain and delight flow into each other and tears turn into blessings that may heal even the most broken hearted.

Finally the bard lowered his harp.

"Praise them with great praise!" he said one last time.

Then the old man knelt down and bent his head to the hobbits and with him knelt every man and woman on the Field of Gold.

**ooo**

The heralds sounded their clarions again.  
Aragorn stepped forward and called out to the crowd, "Now let us celebrate! Let us toast our victory! Let us feast and be merry all through the night! With dinner and music and dancing! Now it is time for laughter and joy!"

In the pavilion the musicians struck up a lilting tune. Right on cue many servants appeared out of the trees and they carried large trays with beer, cider and wine, water and fruit juices, and great plates with spicy pasties to whet the appetite. Everyone sat down at the long tables around the field of Cormallen and while Gandalf led Frodo and Sam into Aragorn's tent to change into clothes better suited for the feast than the orc rags they had worn on their way to Mount Doom, the table of honour was put up on the dais.

**ooo**

"May I offer you a glass of wine?" Éomer asked, his voice low, his eyes full of warmth.  
"Yes, thank you," I said and accepter gratefully a glass of sparkling white wine.  
With a small sigh I sank into the blue cushions of my chair.  
"The music was wonderful, but somehow I feel quite drained now, if you understand what I'm trying to say," I commented, sipping at the wine and enjoying the feeling of the cool fruity liquid in my mouth.  
"Yes, I feel the same, exhilarated, but somehow exhausted all the same. As if my soul has been cleaned from the darkness that has fallen on it during the war. Purged, if you will."  
"Yes," I exclaimed. "That's it, exactly, purged, by the music. How extraordinary! This bard was truly magnificent."  
"He was, wasn't he?" Aragorn put in. "I have no idea where he came from, but when he offered to sing today I felt compelled to accept his song. He must have been sent by the Valar to make such a heavenly music."  
"Maybe he was," Legolas said, his eyes still misted.  
"It was great music, and fitting for the occasion, that's the important thing," Gimli added in a voice even more grumpily than his usual speech. But his eyes were shining with unshed tears, too.

"Here come our heroes," Gandalf announced. We rose to our feet clapping, as Gandalf escorted first Sam and then Frodo to their throne like chairs.

When they were seated, dinner was served. Merry and Pippin were acting as our squires, filling up our glasses with wine, cider, water or beer respectively. It took Sam quite a while, I think about three or four courses, to see through their guise of the Rohirric and Gondorian livery and their new height. He was more than astonished at that.  
Aragorn had stools brought for them, so they could sit down at Sam's end of the table. Soon the three hobbits were deep in talk about the various adventures of the different members of the fellowship.

The red fire of the setting sun illuminated the clearing and the golden leaves of the culumalda seemed to glow like embers all around. All around the Field of Gold people were eating and drinking and talking. The music played as the sun faded at the western horizon and when the first silver stars appeared in the sky, the many lanterns that had been hung in the trees were lit because this night of celebration had only just begun.


	42. A Night of Music and Dancing

**A/N:** The lament can be found in chapter 6 of "The Return of the King", "The Battle of the Pelennor Fields".

The Old English translation of the lament is by Shawn R. McKee and can be found at menu I described is a real menu from the 14th century, which has been slightly adapted so that it can be actually cooked today. If you are interested I can give you the recipes.

* * *

**oooOooo**

**  
42. A Night of Music and Dancing**

"It's so good to see you well and alive, Frodo," I told the hobbit who was seated at my left.  
Frodo gave me a small, pale smile. His left hand was bandaged tightly around the stump of the missing finger. It made for clumsy eating. But he smiled.  
"I'm glad to be alive, too," he said. "I never expected to be." He sighed. I could see that he was not really well. He was not even out of the shock of it all. His eyes showed it.

I am sure you have read about the expression of "having eyes too old for his age" or some similar phrase. You may even have seen pictures of African child-soldiers on TV who have eyes like that. Eyes that have seen killing close-up and personal and contributed their own part to it. Eyes that are somehow old and dead inside. Like so many things it's different if you see this look in the eyes of a friend. I remembered Frodo's eyes as they had been in Bree. Bright and clear, kind eyes, young eyes, with a touch of melancholy, but it had been the comfortable melancholy of a dreamer or a poet.

Now, as I looked at Frodo's eyes, I had the feeling that he did not see me at all or the bright lights above us or the merry people all around. His eyes were dark and as I looked at them I had the feeling that what he _did_ see was not the golden _culumalda_ and the feast all around, but a black land of ashes and demons, darkness and death all around him. I had the disturbing feeling that Frodo had to actually _concentrate_ to be able to see reality as it was now, as it was good and bright, and not to see the shadows that lay behind him.

My heart tightened with pity for him.

Then I realized suddenly that I had seen this look before in a living and breathing person. I had seen that look on someone else in Middle-earth; but at that time I had not recognized this kind of look. For a moment the bright lights faded around me and a chill ran down my back. Back then I could not have recognized that look. I knew that. After all, how should _I_ know what people were supposed to look like after a few thousand years?  
But now I knew. My heart felt heavy with the knowledge of that pain. I had seen that look on Elrond's face in Rivendell. And suddenly, for the first time, I understood why the elves and Frodo had to go, why they _had_ to leave Middle-earth.

Some wounds **are** too deep.  
Some hurts can never heal.

When dark memories take away the sun of even the brightest day, what is there left to do?

At least they would not die. They could go to Aman, to that paradise in the West. On earth no one has that option. There the only option is death and whatever hope anyone has for an afterlife.

"I am so happy to see you alive and well, too," Frodo was saying just now. "At Amon Hen, when I had a look around, I thought I saw many orcs running towards us. I have been worried for such a long time that they might have reached you."

I gave Frodo a wavering smile, forcing my thoughts away from darkness and pain, his as well as some nasty memories of my own.

"Those orcs reached us just fine," I said, keeping my voice purposefully light, raising my still bandaged wrists.

Frodo gasped. "Oh, no! What happened?"

"After Boromir tried to take the Ring from you –"

"But Boromir never tried to take the Ring from me!" Frodo interrupted.

I gasped – the sound of me sucking in air positively echoed around the table – and then I gaped at the hobbit. I blinked. Boromir had never tried to take the ring from Frodo? But he had… I thought back to the scene at Amon Hen, tears rising in my eyes with the memory. Much of that day was a jumbled heap of horror in my memory. But I did remember very clearly how broken Boromir had been, stumbling into our midst after his encounter with Frodo in the woods. However… he had never actually said that he had tried to take the ring from Frodo. I felt my throat tighten with pain. If he had not tried to take the Ring from Frodo, why did he have to die? "May I," my voice sounded hoarse to my ears. I cleared my throat. "May I ask what happened between you… and… Boromir that day?"

Something flickered in Frodo's eyes, he shuddered. "We… we got into an argument about where we should go from Amon Hen, and Boromir shouted, and he put his hand to his sword, he was… completely beside himself. I… I could see that the, the Ring was taking control of him, and I feared for him." He paused. Then he looked at me. "I was also afraid of Boromir. I did not like the way he behaved… towards you. I was worried what he might do. And… I knew he was a valorous man, if He was able to get to the heart of a noble knight like that, what chance would others stand? I was afraid of everyone of you!" He was talking fast now, breathless, his eyes wide with relived fear. "That's why I slipped on the Ring, I did not know what else to do, and when I disppeared, when I was gone, Boromir… it was as if a shadow left him. When I was gone, he was again the noble warrior I remembered.  
"It was me, it was –"

"No, Frodo," Gandalf interrupted. "It was not _you_ who had that effect on Boromir. It was the Ring. And in the end Boromir's heart was strong enough to withstand its lure, barely. Just as you were strong enough, with Sam at your side. The smallest one may change the course of history, and did. And friendship and love may prevail in the end." The wizard looked at me and nodded. Did he mean to imply that I had helped Boromir not to try and take the Ring? But if that was true, why did Boromir have to die? I tried to swallow, but my throat was almost unbearably tight, and I had to widen my eyes painfully so I would not cry.

"But I think you wanted to know what happened to the other hobbits, didn't you?" Gandalf went on smoothly and nodded to me. "I think that is your story, Lothíriel."

Don't you see that I'm in no condition to talk? I glared at the wizard. He just raised one of those bushy white brows at me. I picked up my goblet, took a hasty swallow of wine and forced myself to take up the story where I had stopped.

"Anyway, the orcs came at us. And it was a bloody fight. They killed Boromir." I paused. Boromir who had not succumbed to the Ring. Boromir… I inhaled deeply and went on. "They took Merry, Pippin and me as prisoners and tried to take us to Isengard, to that traitorous sorcerer. But Éomer and his riders –" I exhaled to get rid of that tight feeling in my chest and involuntarily reached out to take Éomer's hand. I felt my stomach do a flip and my hand tingled. But when I tried to draw my hand away, he held it tightly. I gasped a little and had to force myself to continue speaking in this light, bright voice. "Éomer saved me and gave the hobbits the opportunity to escape into Fangorn where they met the ents." 

"Were you terribly hurt?" Frodo asked with wide eyes, his voice filled with apprehension.

I shook my head and managed a fairly cheerful smile. "Not at all, just scratches, see? And Merry and Pippin came out with not even that. On top of that, they were allowed to drink ent-draught and now they are at least three inches taller than they were."

At my comment about my "scratches", Éomer's hand tightened almost painfully around mine. Apparently he did not think that _"not hurt at all"_ applied to the condition he found me in. Well, probably he was right on that account, but Frodo really did not need to hear that right now.

**Damn.** I liked having my hand held like that.  
_Lothíriel, Lothíriel stop this before it gets out of hand…_

But somehow I did not manage to summon up sufficient power of will to remove my hand from Éomer's grasp.

"What are ents?" Frodo asked, bewildered.

Gandalf laughed at that. "Trust a hobbit to come up with an almost unanswerable question in the blink of an eye!"

Frodo frowned. "Well, if it's not answerable, then don't."

"I said _'almost'_," the wizard replied, winking at the hobbit. "Ents are among the oldest beings in all of Arda. The shortest, if not really accurate, answer is that they are tree herders. They watch the trees. But I think you should perhaps ask Merry and Pippin to tell you about ents. They stayed for quite some time with Treebeard, the chief of the ents in Fangorn."  
Gandalf smiled and raised a glass of red wine. "It's good to have you back, Frodo!"

"Yes, it is," I said and raised my glass, too.

Suddenly everyone at the table raised their glass and said in unison: "It's good to have you back, Frodo!"  
Frodo's face lit up with joy at that.

"And Sam!" he said, got up from his chair and raised his own glass to toast his friend at the other end of the table. Of course, everyone followed suit.

"To Sam!" we called, and many cheers went up around us.  
Sam's face turned red as a beet, but he smiled from ear to pointy ear.

Then the first course arrived on silver plates carried by swift footed servants in the black and white colours of Gondor.

The menu was delicious! Seven courses of culinary delights!

The first course was a pastry with minced pigeon and something that tasted like truffles. It whetted the appetite. I felt I could have eaten three times as much of that pastry than was served. But when the other courses arrived one after the other, I was rather glad that I hadn't. I would have burst!  
The second course was fish, rosefish in a sauce with nutmeg, cloves, cardamom and ginger.  
Next came the meat course, which was a roast of tender beef cooked in a marinade of red wine and raisins.  
With the fish and the meat an assortment of breads was served but no additional vegetables or rice. That felt a bit strange to me, but it did make it easier to concentrate on the delicate flavour of the individual dishes.  
The fourth course was vegetable, some kind of cabbage stew with fresh bacon.  
The fifth course was a porridge of some kind of grain with saffron.  
Those two courses I probably have to explain. They were the noble man's version of "simple food". Common people almost never ate anything else in Gondor or Rohan then, and it goes without saying that their grits went without saffron, and their cabbage almost never contained a whiff of bacon.  
It sounds pretty icky, but it was really tasteful. It should be, too, with the finest cooks of Gondor at work in the kitchen tents down at the Anduin.  
The cabbage was stewed all day and the bacon they used for it had been smoked to perfection. The grain grits was all pearly and rice-like in the mouth and with that pungent spicy taste of saffron it was truly delicious.  
Nevertheless I was happy to see that the sixth course was a light green salad of different kinds of cress with a vinaigrette with fresh herbs. As a girl of twenty-first century earth I am willing to commit murder for a good green salad.

Thinking about the inclusion of cabbage and cress in the menu, I realized what the cooks had been trying to accomplish with the composition of the courses for this meal: this menu was all about the best that was left from the winter supplies and the best of the first fresh food of this spring. With no supermarket about where you can get everything you want all the time, the different seasons of the year and their individual crops and fruit really rise in your esteem.

The dessert was a kind of "Blanc-Manger" with saffron, a pudding of rice and almonds coated in gold-foil (yes, you can eat that; but it doesn't really taste like anything).

By the time we had reached the dessert a full moon had risen above the trees.

I was absolute replete and comfortably contemplating the differences between the food here and on earth. It was probably not all that different from earlier centuries on earth. There was at least one common factor: exotic spices, truffles and saffron were signs of luxury here as well as on earth.

Then I sighed with pleasure as another common factor appeared on the table: ein Klarer, ein Obstler, ein Schnaps, schnapps, in short, a clear liquor made of some kind of fruit and an essential aid for digesting seven courses of delicacies, no matter if you're on earth or in Gondor.

I realized that Gandalf was watching me over the rim of his own glass and laughing at me. I raised my eyebrows at him. "You drink it too! What's so funny?"

"Only your relief at finding a civilized liquor on the table of the king of Gondor." Gandalf chuckled. Éomer shrugged. It was going to take some time to get used to Gandalf's new mirth.

**ooo**

Half an hour after the last dishes were cleared away and the servants had circled twice with their jugs of liquor, a herald in the black and white of Gondor stepped on the dance floor.  
He struck the floor thrice with the ornate staff of his office.  
Clarions sounded. 

"My ladies, my lords! The first dance of the evening is the king's dance."

Drums started rolling.

Suddenly I felt a light touch on my shoulder. I turned around to stare at Aragorn.  
The King of Gondor smiled at me. Then he said, "May I have the honour of this dance?"

My mouth fell open. I gaped at him. "But… Arwen… she…"

"Is not here," Aragorn supplied. "I hope you don't mind, Éomer? I will return her unscathed."

Éomer grinned at his friend. "I hope so, for your sake."

And what did **that** mean?  
Then Éomer moved back my chair and allowed Aragorn to draw me up from my seat.  
My knees felt like jelly. As Aragorn led me down the dais, I felt thousands of eyes on me like needles. I gulped again. I was to dance with the **King of Gondor**!

"You do realize that I don't know any dance of this country at all?" I said in a weak voice.  
Aragorn's eyes gleamed with amusement.

"But I do," he countered. "Arwen taught me about every dance that was ever danced in Middle-earth. Don't worry. Just look into my eyes. Arwen would be pleased."

I sighed. "If you say so."  
It was too late to run away. But I did give it a thought.

The music began.  
Fiddles, flutes, drums of various sizes, guitars and harps.  
It was a fast tune and the rhythm was vaguely like foxtrot. To my relief the steps were similar, too.

I could do this.

I did this!

Round and round the King of Gondor swept me, to the cheers and the clapping of thousands of warrior and onlookers from near and far.

Finally the music died down and the unbelievable thing happened:  
I managed to pull off an honest-to-God curtsy!  
Perhaps my knees were just too wobbly to stay upright.

My heart was beating like a drum, adrenaline was rushing through my body, the most exhilarating drug a body can produce. Aragorn drew me up and together we bowed to the cheering crowd.

Then Aragorn led me back to the dais, right into Éomer's arms.

I was in no condition to think clearly. I was in no condition to think at all. Does that count as an excuse?

Éomer held me close and looked down at me, his dark eyes smiling. "You were wonderful," he said softly. "But now you have to dance with me."  
"Okay," I said breathlessly. It had been fun. Down below the dance floor was filling up with many couples, now that the King had opened the dancing for the night. I saw Míriël float by in Prince Imrahil's arms.

Without giving me the time to think twice, Éomer led me down the dais. His hold on me was different. Warm, strong. He smelled good, too. Kind of spicy.   
_Don't even go there, Lothíriel._

Then we were on the dance floor and Éomer turned out to be a brilliant dancer, better even than Aragorn. He spun me this way and that way, swept me around in the most dizzying manner, only to catch me against his broad chest again.

All thoughts fled from my mind.

Of the world around me, there was nothing left but music, rhythm, dancing… and Éomer.  
Strong hands drawing me close and sending me away.  
Dark eyes blazing, soft lips smiling, gold-dun hair glowing.

Suddenly the music slowed down.

A low, haunting melody flowed over the dance floor. Couples drew up against each other.

My heart was beating like a drum.  
My stomach was filled with butterflies.  
My arms and knees felt all wobbly.

"I can't do this," I whispered.

Warmth, strength surrounded me.  
"It's really simple," Éomer told me, his dark voice soothing. "I will show you."  
"I place my hands against your waist like that." Strong hands moulded themselves against my sides. "See, it's simple. And now you do the same," Éomer said.

With trembling hands I reached for him. I touched a leather tunic that was soft as silk, and under it I felt the steely strength of a warrior's body. I felt completely dizzy. Éomer smiled at me. His eyes darkened, taking in my reaction to his closeness.  
"Yes, like that. Exactly," he murmured.  
The music swept up in a lilting variation of the original theme.  
"And now…" his voice was like honey, like mead, dark and sweet, like caresses in the twilight. "And now we turn. Round and round."

"And round again," I gasped.

Slowly we twirled to the rhythm of the tune.

This was a devious dance.

Plain evil.

You have to touch each other fairly intimately, but at the same time your upper bodies are far enough away from each other that you simply have to look into each other's eyes.

**ooo**

Suddenly I grew aware that we had stopped dancing. We were standing in the far corner of the dance floor. Éomer's hands were still at my waist, a heavy, comforting, exhilarating grip.  
Somehow my hands had ended up at his chest. When had that happened?  
My head was tilted back so I was looking up at him. I swallowed hard. His beautiful eyes were so close. Why had I never noticed that his lips were so full, so sensuous?

Clarions sounded clear and bright.

I started, looking away from Éomer to the dance floor. The moon had wandered. Now it hung right above Anduin. Soft white mists were drifting up from the river. The many lanterns in the culumalda trees glittered like fallen stars.

Again a herald had moved to the centre of the dance floor.  
Thrice the herald struck the floor.

"Now it is time to lament the fallen heroes and praise them with great praise."

"Now it's my turn," Éomer whispered to me. He squeezed my shoulders briefly, then walked to the centre of the dance floor.

The lanterns and torches around the dance floor were extinguished.  
Finally Éomer stood tall and proud in a pool of cool white moonlight.

Silence had fallen once again on the Field of Cormallen.  
The only sounds were the soft rushing of the rivers and the slight rustle of the new leaves of the culumalda in the breeze.

Then a harp began to play.

It was a mournful, haunting melody as if tears had been turned into a tune.

Then the song of the harp died away.

Only then Éomer began to sing.

He sang in the language of the Rohirrim.  
I could not understand the words, but it is a melancholy language, a language of wide, wind swept plains, hard lives lived under an endless sky, a language that has been born from many centuries of war and peace.

It is a language well suited to a lament of fallen heroes.

But it was Éomer's voice that sent shiver after shiver down my spine.

His voice was very deep, more bass than baritone, but it was clear, clear like a mountain stream and cool like the wind of the plains.

**ooo**

This is what he sang:

We hierdon þara horna on þæm hringde beorgum  
þæm sweorda scinde on þæm suð-cynerice.  
Stedas gongdon eodon to þæm Stana-Lond  
windlice þæm morgena. Wig wæs onælde.  
þær Þéoden feoll, Þengling mihtig,  
to his goldselum, and grenum læsum  
on þæm Noreð feldum næfre gecierran,  
þara hlaford heapa. Harding and Guthlàf,  
Dúnhere and Déorwine, deor-mod Grimbold,  
Herefara and Herubrand, Horn and Fastred,  
feohtdon and þær feollon, on feore folclande:  
on þæm Mold-ærne Mundburga under moldan licge  
mid hira gaderwistum Gondora leodfrumum.  
Ne Hirluin se fægra be flote to beorgum,  
ne Forlong se ealde to þæm florisc denum  
æfre, to Arnache, to his earde sin  
gerierrdon on sigore; ne þæm sceotendas langas,  
Derufin and Duilin, to hira deorce wæteras,  
moras Morthonda under munta sceadum.  
Deaþ on þæm morgene and æt dæga endan  
toc drihtenas and swanas. Nu slæpiað long  
under molderne on Gondore be þa Mihtigan Ean.  
Nu græg tearlice, glæd seolfor,  
read ða weallde, wæter grymetiende:  
blodic brim byrniað æt æfentide;  
muntas lic beacen byrniað æt æfene;  
readfah se deaw fylde on Rammase Echore.

**ooo**

In the Common Tongue the words of Éomer's lament are these:

We heard of the horns in the hills ringing,  
the swords shining in the South-Kingdom.  
Steeds went striding to the Stoningland  
as wind in the morning. War was kindled.  
There Théoden fell, Thengling mighty,  
to his golden halls and green pastures  
in the Northern fields never returning,  
high lord of the host. Harding and Guthlàf,  
Dúnhere and Déorwine, doughty Grimbold,  
Herefara and Herubrand, Horn and Fastred,  
fought and fell there in a far country:  
in the Mounds of Mundburg under mould they lie  
with their league-fellows, lords of Gondor.  
Neither Hirluin the Fair to the hills by the sea,  
nor Forlong the old to the flowering vales  
ever, to Arnach, to his own country  
returned in triumph; nor the tall bowmen,  
Derufin and Duilin, to their dark waters,  
meres of Morthond under mountain-shadows.  
Death in the morning and at day's ending  
lords took and lowly. Long now they sleep  
under grass in Gondor by the Great River.  
Grey now as tears, gleaming silver,  
red then it rolled, roaring water:  
foam dyed with blood flamed at sunset;  
as beacons mountains burned at evening;  
red fell the dew in Rammas Echor.  
**  
**

** ooo**

At the end of his song, Éomer let his voice die away as if the singer was moving off into the distance. For a moment longer he remained standing in the centre of the dance floor, alone and unmoving.

Silence echoed around the Field of Cormallen.  
Slowly Éomer walked away from the dance floor.  
Slowly he walked towards me.  
When he stood in front of me, I could see that he was crying.  
Silver trails of tears were streaming down his cheeks.

Time and the world stopped around us.

Without hesitation I allowed me to be drawn into his embrace.  
Dark eyes locked their gaze with mine.  
Soft, velvety lips touched my mouth.


	43. Customs and Courtship

**43. Customs and Courtship**

The morning after the celebration at Cormallen dawned with a beautiful sunrise of gold with fluffy, pink clouds drifting around the rising sun. But for once I did not see the sunrise. I was fast asleep and dreaming about dancing and dark eyes. I woke only when a gentle hand touched my shoulder and the scent of lily-of-the-valley drifted up around me. Míriël had come to wake me for breakfast.

"Wake up, sleepy-head," she said smiling at me.

I blinked at her, slowly returning from my dreams to the waking world. "Did I only dream last night or was it for real?" I asked. Dancing. Éomer singing. Éomer!

Míriël's smile broadened, and there was a twinkle in her eyes. "You danced with kings, my dear. And you danced beautifully."

I sat up, folding back the covers of my cot. My stomach did a happy little flip. "I did? I did!" I felt a smile of my own spread across my face. "I really did." I sighed as another memory rose in my mind and pulled at things low in my body.

"And?" Míriël prompted gently. "Is there anything else you would like to tell me?"

"Éomer," I said and stopped. I gulped. Éomer. The King of Rohan had kissed me. Suddenly I felt all shivery.

"Éomer?" Míriël asked softly, the corners of her mouth crinkling slightly with suppressed mirth.

"He kissed me," I admitted, feeling happiness bubble up inside of me.

"And did you like it?" Míriël asked, her eyes sparkling.

_Did I like it…_ for a moment the soft white light of the tent faded around me, being replaced by the memory of moonlight and lanterns glittering like stars in the trees, the feeling of lips like warm velvet…

The sound of soft chuckling brought me back to the present. I opened my mouth and closed it again. Míriël squeezed my hand gently. "Don't say anything, Lothy. I see the answer right there in your eyes."

I sighed deeply. Oh, yes. I **had** liked it.

"Do you realize what this means?" Míriël asked. And now her voice was very serious.

My heart skipped a beat. What _what_ means?

I stared at Míriël. "Do I realize what?"

The Lady of Dol Amroth sat on the edge of my bed, her skirts spread out around her in a sea of blue silky fabric. She looked at me with a thoughtful expression in her eyes. When she spoke again, the turn of conversation took me completely unawares.

"You have no mother here to give you advice, and counsel you. Would you allow me to offer you some guidance in this particular matter of the heart? Such as your mother would, were she here?" Míriël asked politely.

My heart sped up. What was the matter? Had I done something wrong? "Sure," I said, feeling bewildered.

"Now, Lothíriel, I know that you are a woman grown, but you told me you come from a country, a society that is very different from Middle-earth. You are a stranger to the customs of Gondor and Rohan, and you have no experience with the ways of noble lords and ladies, isn't that right?" Míriël asked me point-blank.

I nodded, still completely confused about where this question would lead. "There aren't many lords and ladies where I come from. The country where I was born does not have a king or queen."

Míriël shook her head as if this was hard to believe. Perhaps it was.

I frowned at her. "Did I do something wrong?"

Míriël laughed at that and at my confusion. She put her arm around me and hugged me reassuringly. "No, dear, you did not do anything wrong. But you have to realize what it means when an unwed king dances with you in public and kisses you with thousands watching."

A rushing sound filled my ears. Unwed king? Dancing in public? Thousands watching?

The happy feelings that I had woken with were quickly turning into a feeling of complete panic. "But… he can't mean… he can't… I can't… I don't have any place in… I mean, I'm a nobody… I did not think…" I stammered.

"Oh, Lothíriel, don't be frightened now," Míriël told me in a calm voice, trying to soothe me. "I watched you two together last night. You were adorable. I think that Éomer's intentions are truly honourable and that he… _likes…_ you too much to care where you come from. And besides, you _have_ earned your place in the society of Gondor and Rohan, oh, in any society in Middle-earth twice over, travelling with the Fellowship and carrying messages of war that aided our victory. But you have to keep in mind that Éomer is not just any young warrior. He is a king. When you meet him, when you dance with him and especially when you kiss him, you have to keep his responsibility towards his people and his country in mind. It is important that you observe the niceties of courtship, for his sake and yours."

"Courtship?" I whispered, my heart now beating like a drum, my fingers feeling icy with shock.

"Yes, courtship," Míriël repeated in a firm voice. "If I am not completely mistaken, Éomer has set his eyes rather firmly on you."

I did not faint, although for a moment I felt my vision grow rather hazy. I said the first thing that came to mind, "I'm too young to marry."

Míriël laughed at that again, a bright, amused laugh. "How old are you?"

"I am twenty-four. No, twenty-five. Do you know that I have completely forgotten about my birthday?"

"I imagine you had other things on your mind at the time," Míriël commented.

I tried to remember where I had been on the twelfth of January. In Moria?

"But at twenty-five you are actually rather old to be married. Among the nobility of Gondor or Rohan most girls marry at sixteen or seventeen. Why, I believe that Éomer is only three years older than you are."

"At sixteen?" I stared at her. I should have known. On Earth it had been like that, too, in earlier centuries, not really very long ago actually.

Míriël nodded. "I married when I was sixteen. My husband is fifteen years older than I am. That's pretty common."

My mind had stopped functioning. "He looks much younger," I said and then felt the heat of acute embarrassment rising to my cheeks.

But luckily Míriël was not offended. She only chuckled softly. "He's going to like hearing that. It's that elvish blood of his; it makes him look younger than he is."

"And you were seventeen when your daughter was born?" I asked hesitatingly.

Míriël nodded, her eyes misting slightly. "Yes, I was," she sighed softly. "My Lothíriel would be twenty-six this year, and I would probably be a grandmother several times over by now, had she lived."

Then she took my hands and squeezed them. "Lothíriel, I don't want to spoil your joy or the romance of this encounter for you, for either of you. But you have to realize that anything that is between you can never be as simple as such affairs are between common born men and women, who are free to conduct their courtship any way they please."

"Then I will just have to stop this," I said.

"Do you?" Míriël raised her eyebrows at me. "Do you really?"

Just stop… could I simply forget dark eyes, a deep, mellow voice, and strong hands on my waist, dancing in the moonlight…?

"Well, no," I admitted grudgingly. "I feel… drawn to him. Oh, for heaven's sake, I think I just might have a huge crush on him. But how can I know if… if it's real, real enough for marriage, for a life?"

"You don't," Míriël answered matter-of-factly. "No matter how old you are, you can never know what the future may bring. And here at least we find a valid reason for our ancient customs of courtship and betrothal. They give you time and opportunity to see what is in your hearts, if your hearts are strong enough to risk a shared future."

_You can never know what the future may bring…_

But I did know. Didn't I? Éomer would marry Lothíriel. If one Lothíriel was dead, and the other was alive, did that mean **I** would marry Éomer? My heart skipped a beat or two. My stomach lurched sickly. But even as I felt panic overwhelm me, I remembered dark eyes, a deep, beautiful voice, a spicy, male scent enveloping me and velvety lips. A memory that set up a flurry of butterflies in my stomach.

Did I really want to stop?  
Did I really never want to see Éomer again?

But what about those ridiculous customs of courtship and betrothal? How would I be able to find out what there was between us, if there was anything between us, between Éomer and Lothíriel, if I was caught in a web of rules and customs I did not understand? Then another thought occurred to me. If this was now my home and it was, because I had chosen it to be, then the laws and customs of Middle-earth were now my laws and customs. Even if they were not, I had no right to scorn them only because they seemed strange and quaint to me.

Apart from all that, one single evening of music and dancing did not mean anything like courtship or betrothal or marriage, the small voice of reason and logic argued at the back of my mind. There was a long way to go from this evening to any one of those things. But did I want to stop seeing Éomer at this point of getting to know him because of whatever might or might not be in my, in our, future? Only because I was scared out of my wits, because he was a king?

"What should I do?" I finally asked in a very small voice.

Míriël smiled at me encouragingly. "You should smile and be happy that a handsome man had only eyes for you on such a great evening as yesterday. You should enjoy yourself and not be frightened because of customs that are strange to you, and consequences that may or may not come about."

Then she halted. She looked at me, and her eyes grew dark and a strange, wistful expression slid across her face. But then her smile deepened again, and that moment was over. "And finally, you should allow me to mother you a little bit. If you want me to, I will take care of you. I will look out for you, so you don't have to worry about unfamiliar customs and the pittfalls of courtship."

I stared at her in wonder. "You would do that for me?" I asked, touched and confused. "Why?"

There was a soft, sad smile on her face. "Because I like you very much, Lothíriel," she said simply. "And because I never had the chance to do those things for my daughter."

Then she visibly shook herself out of the sentimental mood we were in, and her voice was brisk as she asked, "Well, what do you say? Do you think you still need a mother with all of your twenty-five years of age?"

I simply flung myself into her arms. "Of course I do," I cried. "Of course I do!"

**ooo**

When I had calmed down again, Míriël made me eat breakfast and take a bath. It was around noon when I was finally dressed – in very faded blue jeans, a grey silk shirt, and a long black dress-tunic – and eager to leave the tent. I had finally remembered that there was still a task that I had to accomplish, a promise that I had to hold. So I set out to find a foot-soldier from Tarnost, one Fynbar, husband of Sorcha, to deliver the last letter of this war that I carried with me.

"If you meet Éomer, don't go off with him on your own. If he wants to take you for a walk or anything, you come to me and I will accompany the two of you," Míriël told me.

_Don't go off with him on your own!_ My thoughts flew back to a smiling Éowyn and her reasons for staying at Minas Tirith. Staying at Minas Tirith! Alone with her sweetheart! I ground my teeth. Just you wait until I see you again, I thought. I will chaperone your every breath! Just you wait…

"I will, Míri, I will," I promised meekly. She raised her eyebrows at me but did not say anything, just motioned to me to get myself away. I grinned to myself. The lady of Dol Amroth was probably more than eager for some privacy with her sweetheart. I sighed. And she did not need a chaperone anymore.

I had not gone far into the encampment when I found myself surrounded by hobbits.

"Hullo, Lothy, where have you been all day?" That was Merry. "Tired from all that dancing, I bet," Pippin commented. "And the kissing!" He burst into a fit of giggling. Sam glared at him, blushing. _Thousands watching…oh ye gods! Míriël was right!_

"Oh, come on, guys, leave her in peace," Frodo told his friends. "You are just jealous that there were no sweet girls for you to dance with."

"Yes," Pippin grumbled, "because Éomer wouldn't leave her alone." Then he yelped as Merry trod heavily on his foot.

I decided to ignore their bantering. "Pippin, would you know where I can find a certain foot-soldier from Tarnost? I have a letter for him from his wife and his daughter."

Pippin and Merry stopped their good-natured squabble and looked at me. "Sure," Pippin nodded. "Just come with me, I will take you to their tents."

The others decided to come along with us, and so we walked together through the encampment, four hobbits and one woman. Apart from the elves everyone looked up and watched us as we went by, many and mostly grey eyes filled with barely concealed curiosity.

Pippin and Merry were totally oblivious to the looks that followed us, but I could see that Frodo felt uncomfortable, and Sam was blushing hotly.

The tents of the men of Dol Amroth were at the end of the encampment, close to the tents of the healers, so we had to pass all the others tents on our way. To my surprise, the tents were not grey or dun, but colourful, taking up the colours of the various coats of arms. Pippin was greeted every now and again by soldiers. He called back to them in a friendly manner. He knew each of them by name and affiliation.

Watching Pippin, I realized that the youngest hobbit had changed, too. Like Merry he had grown about three inches and was now half a head taller than Frodo and Sam. He was lean and he looked very much like a young squire of Gondor in his black and white livery; he was strong, muscular from fighting and handsome with his bright hair and his light, greenish eyes. But even though his eyes were as light and twinkling as I remembered them, shadows lurked in their depths now, shadows of war and evil he would never forget. He did not look like a boy anymore, I noticed somewhat astonished. Even at Amon Hen he had still looked like a boy. Now he had grown into a man of his folk. Small of stature compared to a human, sure, but a man grown nonetheless. His cheerfulness and pertness had been tempered by the war and now there was a core of steel to his amiable personality.

I sighed – well, perhaps not out loud, but certainly in my mind. All of us had changed. But with the young hobbits, the change was most noticeable.

"Here it is," Pippin said and halted at a couple of pale blue tents. "I will just go and ask their captain. Wait a moment, please. The name was Fynbar of Tarnost, yes?"

"Yes, Fynbar of Tarnost, husband of Sorcha," I said. Would he be here? Would he be alright?

I thought about Sorcha, the pleading look in her green eyes, little Solas with her dark blue eyes intent on the letter her mother was holding out for me to take. _Please, let him be alright._

But when Pippin returned with a tall soldier who wore the uniform of a captain and a sombre look on his face, I knew that Sorcha's husband wasn't alright.

"Lady Lothíriel?" the captain asked.

"Yes, that's me. I have a letter for a foot-soldier from Tarnost. His name is Fynbar. It's a letter from his wife, Sorcha," I replied in a low voice, steeling myself for what I knew would come next.

"I am sorry, my lady. But Fynbar is dead. He died at Minas Tirith, in a sortie to assist Lord Faramir," the captain told me, his eyes grave, his voice filled with sorrow. "He fought valiantly. Though I know it will be only a small comfort for his wife, let her know that her husband died as a hero. All of us are proud to have known him."

"Thank you, sir," I answered, because I could not think of anything else to say. The officer saluted us smartly and then returned to his men.

We turned around and walked along the banks of the Anduin towards the Field of Cormallen in silence. I realized only then that the lament for the fallen heroes Éomer had sung last night would not be enough to overcome the losses of the war. The war, its sacrifices and losses, would haunt us for many months, if not years, yet.

"How come that you carried a letter for that soldier?" Sam asked after we had walked quite a distance. For an instance I was surprised. When I had seen Sam the last time, he seldom ventured forth with a question or a comment of his own but kept silent most of the time. He, too, had changed. There was a new strength in his eyes and the way he carried himself spoke of a self-assurance that had not been there when I had seen him the last time on the green meadow below Amon Hen.

"I rode as a messenger to Tarnost to summon the armies of the south-western provinces to Minas Tirith. In Tarnost I met this soldier's wife, Sorcha, and their little daughter, Solas. When everything was over and I rode back to Minas Tirith myself, Sorcha asked me to take a letter to her husband," I explained. And now that letter would never reach her husband.

I would have to write to her today. How do you tell a friend that her husband, the father of her child is dead? Then I realized that I could not even write to her. I did not know if she was able to read – and even if she was able to read and write, I could not write the tengwar letters used in Gondor well enough to write a real letter.

Lost in thought I did not see him until we were almost in front of him. Halfway to Cormallen field, a leather-clad figure stepped out of the trees. My heart skipped a beat. It was Éomer, of course. He was dressed for riding; high boots, soft leather trousers, leather tunic and a green shirt with wide sleeves. His dark eyes sparkled when he saw me; his face lit up with a smile. I felt an answering glow spread on my face, driving away all dark thoughts of war and death and letters instantly.

_Oh, God, _I thought. _I am really falling for him!_

"Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin, it's good to see you well," he greeted the hobbits in a friendly voice. Then he looked directly into my eyes and I felt heat rise to my cheeks. "My lady Lothíriel. How wonderful to see you, too."

Giggles went up behind my back and I heard Frodo make hushing noises and whispering something that sounded like "let's leave them alone". I turned around and slowly shook my head, remembering with difficulty what I had promised to Míriël. "Please, don't go! You can't just leave me alone," I implored. The hobbits hesitated. Sam scratched his head, obviously thinking hard.

"But you would not be alone," Éomer told me with merrily twinkling eyes. "I would be here."

I raised my eyebrows at him. "Indeed, your highness," I said, pointedly ignoring the fact that he had asked me to call him Éomer. But my cheeks were flushing with heat as I realized that I had again used a title that was known to me from books but that was not actually used in Middle-earth. Now it was Éomer's turn to raise his eyebrows.

He gave me a long, searching look; then he sighed. "And who might you have been talking to since last night? Or should I ask who has talked to you about last night?"

I looked at him and I think he saw in my eyes what I was feeling. A longing for last night. For dancing and touching and kissing softly in the moonlight. I sighed deeply before I answered,

"It was the Lady Míriël, my lord. The Lady of Dol Amroth. She was most insistent that I should not be alone with you as that is apparently not at all appropriate."

I heard a low, but decisive "Aha" behind me. Then I felt someone step up next to me. I looked to my right and discovered that Sam had taken up position at my side, his feet rooted firmly to the ground, a fiercely protective expression on his face. Out of the corners of my eyes I saw a wide grin spreading across Frodo's pale face, whereas Merry and Pippin dissolved into unhinged giggles behind my back. I could see that Éomer was hard put to hide a grin that mirrored Frodo's, in spite of his annoyance.

In a sound caught somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh, the King of Rohan said, "Then allow me to escort you to the Lady Míriël. If she deems it at all appropriate, I would like to take you for a ride, my lady Lothíriel." He offered me his arm. Sam glared at him. I lightly put my hand on Éomer's arm and managed to gasp only very slightly as he covered my hand with his, sending tingling sensations through my body.

"I am sure she will allow it... if she comes with us, that is."

Éomer groaned but led me gallantly back towards the tent I shared with Míriël – closely followed by Sam, who had his shoulders squared in acceptance of this new task.

**ooo**

"May we enter?" I called wisely before parting the drapes at the entrance of our tent. Just how wisely, I only realized when I heard a muffled oath, the rustling sound of fabrics being smoothed down and a rather breathless "Come in" called out by the Lady Míriël. I knew that I had to be grateful to Míri for preventing me from making a mess of things. Nevertheless I felt a perverse satisfaction at seeing her lord with dishevelled hair and a disgruntled expression on his face on the sofa and Míri standing at the table with burning cheeks and equally tousled hair, pouring some water into a beaker.

When I glanced up at Éomer, I saw a slight grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "My lady of Dol Amroth, Imrahil, I am sorry to disturb you. But when I asked the Lady Lothíriel to take her out riding this beautiful spring afternoon, I was informed that I had to ask you first if such an excursion was appropriate."

Lord Imrahil slowly looked from Éomer to me to his wife and back to Sam, who had entered the tent behind us. It was almost funny to see comprehension dawn on the Prince's face.

With a sigh he swept his long, silvery hair behind his shoulders. He rose from his seat and quickly walked over to his wife. He placed a soft kiss on her cheek. "I see you have found another waif to adopt. And I can't fault your choice, my love. Nor yours, sire," he said to Éomer with a slight bow. "But I warn you, my lord. My wife is very serious about any responsibility she takes on. And I have to admit that I feel a certain sense of responsibility for the Lady Lothíriel, too."

I gaped at the Prince of Dol Amroth. The Prince smiled at me and placed his right hand on my shoulder. "As a woman with no husband and children of your own yet, you will not know what it means for a soldier to have to fight and expect death without having had the chance to say goodbye to the ones you love. That you carried my thoughts to my lady from Tarnost freed my heart and mind when it was necessary. For that I will always be grateful."

Then the Prince of Dol Amroth turned to Sam. "My lord _perian_, would you care to accompany me to the King of Gondor? I believe he mentioned that he wanted all of you to join him for tea and perhaps a pipe."

Satisfied that the Lady Míriël would watch out for me, Sam bowed to the Prince and followed him out of the tent.

"So, my lord, you want to go riding with the Lady Lothíriel," Míri picked up the original conversation.

"If it is at all appropriate," Éomer replied calmly, his right eyebrow rising just a little, though the inflection of his voice did not.

Míriël grinned at the King of Rohan unrepentantly. "But of course it is. Could I offer you a cup of wine or some juice while I get ready? As you can see, I am not dressed for riding. I will be in the next room. It will take me no more than five minutes to get ready." She pointed at the table set with cups and two jugs. Then she disappeared into her room.

I slumped down on the chair and put my face into my hands. I felt my cheeks positively on fire with embarrassment. When I heard the sound of some movement, I looked up, almost afraid that Éomer had decided that this was way too much trouble for an afternoon of horse-riding with Lothíriel and simply left.

But when I raised my head, I found that Éomer knelt in front of me. He took my hands into his and clasped them tightly. "I should have thought of what is appropriate or not before this morning, my lady. I hope you don't feel bad about last night." His dark eyes were filled with concern. Looking into his eyes, hearing his mellow voice so close to me, the tingling sensation from before intensified into a fluttering feeling that made me shiver all over.

"Never," I said. "And please, call me Lothíriel."

And then I did something that was not at all appropriate.


	44. The Coronation

**A/N: **Extensive quotes of the real thing in the second part of the chapter. Anything that sounds like Tolkien in that part probably is Tolkien.

* * *

****

**oooOooo **

**44. The Coronation**

The next few weeks could have been perfect.

We stayed at Cormallen as spring turned into a warm, golden summer and the light spring-green of Ithilien's forests darkened slightly as the year went by. Now that the shadow of the enemy was gone from its hills and streams, Ithilien was turning again into the idyllic land of green hills and clear streams that it had been once, long ago, as I was told again and again by grizzled old soldiers who had known this "garden of Gondor" even then. The sweet fragrance of lavender and wild thyme floated in the air and when it rained it was only in short, soft showers, light summer rains that left the air balmy and floated silver mists on the Anduin.

The land was healing.

The people were healing.

Gradually, sunny day by sunny day, the wounds of body and soul that had been inflicted by the war and the darkness of Mordor were alleviated. I was finally allowed to shed the bandages at my wrists and ankles. Frodo regained some weight and slowly colour returned to his cheeks. The last soldier was finally released from the tents of the healers.

Days of gold in that field of gold.

Every time I looked into dark eyes, every time I heard a deep, mellow voice, every time I smelled a spicy, male scent, my heart skipped a beat.

It could have been perfect.

Up until the last day at Cormallen, the inappropriate kiss I managed to steal from Éomer the day after the celebration had been the last touch we were allowed to share. I don't know who, if anyone, talked to the hobbits. But after that day, I was never left alone with Éomer. I think the hobbits thought it funny to continually hang around and make a nuisance of themselves. Especially Sam was watching our every step with eyes like a hawk. I already pitied the daughters he was going to have some day!

And if it was not one or all of the hobbits following me around, there was always someone, anyone else present when I was allowed to meet Éomer, first of all Míriël of course. But after a few days I had the feeling that there was really no one left at Cormallen that did not know about the interest Éomer King had developed for the girl of the fellowship, and it seemed to me that every single soldier in the encampment was bent on defending my innocence and ensuring that we did behave ourselves.

In a way it was sweet.

It was also bloody infuriating.

The only time we were nearly alone was when we were riding together. Éomer was teaching me how to ride. Although I _had_ been able to keep in the saddle when I arrived at Cormallen, I quickly realized that I did not really know anything about riding. But in Éomer I found the perfect teacher. Éomer had grown up with horses. And not with just any horses, but the finest horses of Middle-earth. In fact, he had been riding before he could walk. More than that, he was not only a great horse-man and rider; he was also a very patient teacher. Although it would be years yet before I could ever think of any serious jumping or racing, every day that passed I felt more at home in the saddle.

And I loved Mithril.

I loved Mithril even more when I discovered that Mithril and Éomer's Meara, a dappled grey stallion called Hiswa, were much faster than any other horse around save Shadowfax. When my riding skills were up to a real gallop, Éomer and I sometimes managed to barely escape our chaperones. A real gallop on a Meara is almost like flying. It is exhilarating beyond almost anything. It is even more exhilarating when the reward for a successful race is the touch of a strong, but tender hand, a smile that is meant for your eyes only.

I am forever in Gandalf's debt that he did not let himself be inveigled into accompanying our rides. No horse can outrun Shadowfax. That way we got at least some time alone together. Though it is not really possible to kiss or hold hands while on a horse.

Almost every evening there was music and dancing on the Field of Cormallen, and often a great log fire would be lit to gather around and tell tales or sing songs. Sometimes Éomer would sing, too. I thought I would melt whenever I heard his voice raised in song, as dark and clear as a starlit night. Sometimes I knew that he sang just for me.

Those were halcyon days, suspended between the darkness of war and the responsibilities of peace. Those were blessed days, blissful days that we shared in the sunshine of Ithilien's summer with our friends.

_Those were the days…_

And all too soon they were over.

**ooo**

The day of our departure for Minas Tirith dawned in soft pastel colours. The eastern sky was the pale blue of forget-me-nots and the fiery golden globe of the rising sun trailed a veil of misty clouds of a light rosy shade behind it. The banks of the Anduin were partially obscured by a silvery haze, not mist, only a soft shimmer that was a little thicker than air. Somewhere far above us in the sweet, clear air of morning a bird, probably the Middle-earth equivalent of a lark, was singing its heart out.

I did not have to bother with packing my things. The servants of the Lady and the Prince of Dol Amroth would take care of that. But to allow them to do so had meant to rise before sunrise. I did not mind. After so many months of rising before the sun, I actually liked to get up early and watch the dawn.

Even so early in the morning the camp was already an ant heap. Tents were being pulled down, carriages and ferries were laden. Horses were saddled.

But for once I was alone and I enjoyed that solitariness. I turned away from the camp's mêlée and walked along the banks of the Anduin to the edge of Cormallen, where the small stream of Andros met the Anduin. At the edge of the water grew a great _culumalda_ tree. I sat down under the green and gold leaves of the tree and watched how the rising of the sun coloured the water of the river. That morning the water seemed to turn into liquid gold and silver in the first sunlight of the day. The noises of the camp being struck were muffled by the rushing voice of the river. I realized that I would miss the carefree days we had spent here.

Where would I go from here?

First to Minas Tirith, of course. But then?

Would I be allowed to accompany Éomer to Edoras? Would he ask me to?

The sound of my name called in a low, dark voice made me jump. When I realized that it was Éomer, who had stepped out of the trees behind me, my heart started pounding.

"Lothíriel," he said as he walked slowly towards me. "My lady."

"Éomer," I replied. I did not possess the strength of will to raise an eyebrow at him. But after gathering my courage I managed to add, "My lord."

I thought I would drown in his gaze. Everything about him was dark and deep, fathomless, fascinating.

"May I sit down?" he asked softly. "It is good to escape the uproar at the encampment for a moment."

"Of course," I said, smiling up at him.

He sat down in the grass next to me. He was already dressed for riding, leather trousers, green shirt, and leather tunic. With a pang I realized that the moment of parting was nearly upon us. He smelled of leather and horse and that indefinable spicy scent I had come to recognize from some evenings of dancing as all Éomer, and all male.

My breath caught in my throat.

To be finally alone with him!

To sit finally so close to him!

I could feel the warmth of his body against my left side. Today I did not wear a shirt, but had simply slipped into a sleeveless tunic and belted it tight around my waist. It was a green tunic, embroidered in black that went well with the black leather trousers I wore for riding nowadays.

"I will miss this place," I said finally. "The last days were so soothing and peaceful."

"That is true," Éomer said. "And free. Free of trouble and responsibility."

"Will it be hard to be king?" I asked.

Éomer sighed. His forehead grew tense, and he pressed his lips together. After a long moment's silence he answered. "Yes, it will be very difficult. It is a responsibility I never longed for. I was content to lead a life of relative freedom with my horses and my duties as the third marshal of the Riddermark. I would have been happy with that life. Now, all my life will be spent to serve my people and my country. Now, every life of every man, every woman and every child in the Mark is my responsibility and will be to the day I die."

He looked across the water of the river to the west. "Yes, it will be hard to be king, because I want to, because I _need_ to be a good king. Rohan and my people have suffered much during the last years. It will be a long time until all our wounds are healed. And although the enemy in the east is destroyed, many of his minions escaped. There are many who are only waiting for their chance to get at Gondor or Rohan, now that we are still weak from the war. The corsairs of Umbar, the wild Haradrim, the warriors of Khand. It's a wonder we even had these few days of peace here."

Éomer turned to me. "And under the influence of Saruman and Gríma many things have turned ill in Rohan. It will be a long way until Rohan is what it once was. A kingdom where justice rules and corruption is banned." He gave me a crooked smile. "I am sorry, my lady, if I have bored you. But much is on my mind, and I have to admit that I am eager to return to duties that have been neglected during these days of bliss."

"I am not bored in the least," I replied. "Before I came to Middle-earth I was a law student. I know how difficult it is to achieve justice in any way and how laborious it is to try to get rid of corruption."

"A law student?" Éomer asked, obviously not familiar with the term.

"I studied the ways laws are made, applied and enforced. Where I come from every man and every woman has to learn some trade or lore to make a living. I studied law. If I had stayed, I would have become a judge, a lawyer or a teacher of law," I explained.

"How strange and how interesting," Éomer said. "You have to tell me more about your home and your studies."

I clenched my teeth. I did so not want to talk about _jurisprudentia_ the one time I was alone with him. I think he read my mind because he smiled and said, "But not just now, my lady. This moment of being alone with you is too precious."

"Yes, it is," I whispered.

"And once we are at Minas Tirith, we will have little or no opportunity to be alone," he added, his voice like a velvety caress.

"Oh, no," was all that I could think of to say. Here was a man that could reduce my brain to jelly with one deep look and one husky word.

"And I am sure that all too soon either Sam or the wonderful Lady of Dol Amroth will come storming out of the trees," he continued, his eyes fixed on me, slowly moving closer towards me. There were amber highlights in the depth of his eyes that I had never noticed before. I watched his wide, sensuous lips as he spoke. A fierce desire for him flared up inside of me.

"I am sure they will, my lord," I breathed.

"My lady," he whispered in a hoarse voice.

Then he closed that last distance between us.

Warm, velvety lips touched my lips and slid ever so softly against my mouth. Just lightly his tongue stroked my lips. I opened my lips and the kiss deepened. Tongue met tongue and teasing grew into sweet torture. I think I moaned deep in my throat, a sound as close to a purr as a human being can manage as I felt his strong, tender hand at the back of my neck. With a shared sigh we let ourselves sink back into the grass. Holding me fast at my upper arms, Éomer bent over me and trailed my face with slow kisses. When I thought I could bear it no longer, he finally returned to my mouth, kissing me deeply, in exquisite sweetness. His beard was like smoothest fur against my chin, my cheeks, enticingly soft, and I longed to feel it on my skin lower than my cheeks or throat. Instinctively I moved my body against his, luxuriating in the feeling of a warrior's strength pressed against me.

Suddenly Éomer moaned and drew back from me. "Oh, my lady, my Lady Lothíriel, you are my undoing," he whispered. I shuddered against him. He sat back up and drew me with him, settling me in the crook of his arm, holding me tightly against him. He laid a soft kiss on the top of my head. "For now we have to be content with a stolen kiss now and again, for I would not have us do anything we would both regret."

I was more than willing to do everything we would both regret, but I did not say anything. Instead I leaned into his embrace, savouring his closeness, the heady, spicy scent of his body, and his dark, mellow voice sending shivers down my spine.

"I cannot ask you for anything yet, my lady Lothíriel," he told me. "They call me Éomer King, but I am not yet he. For my uncle is not yet buried, and it is still many weeks until I will be acclaimed as Éomer King. Only then I can come to you in honour and offer you my heart and my kingdom. But I would ask you now if you would accompany me to Edoras, that I might show you the beauty of the Riddermark now that you are healthy and not subdued by wounds, sickness and war."

I looked into his dark eyes and any answer I might have given fled from my mind as he kissed me softly and tenderly, his velvety lips only stroking against my own pulsing lips. When he drew back, I laid my head against his shoulder, gasping for breath, my heart beating like a drum. He caught my right wrist in his hand and softly stroked the pink scar tissue that coiled around the base of my hand.

"I am so glad that I was in time that day," he whispered.

Thanks to the excellent treatment at the hands of the lady Elaine I had not suffered any loss of sensibility. Indeed, the healing flesh was very, very sensitive there. I convulsed against Éomer in a gasping giggle that ended in another languorous kiss.

"Now, please, my lady, I beg you. Tell me, will you come with me to Edoras?" Éomer asked again.

It was only then that my mind and my heart understood everything that Éomer had said. With my heart racing I realized that this was it, this was that moment. Almost unnoticed the moment had crept up on me when I had to decide on the course my life would take from here. Curled up in Éomer's embrace under the golden and green leaves of a _culumalda_ tree I made my choice. Between the Field of Gold and the great river Anduin I made my choice.

I made my choice and I have never regretted it.

"Gladly I will, my lord. My king. Éomer!" I replied, my lips seeking his again.

But he only smiled at me and moved away, releasing me out of his embrace. Then he rose to his feet with a deep sigh and drew me up against him. "I thank you, my lady Lothíriel, with all my heart, with all my soul. But now we should go back to the encampment. We have to ride far today, but at least we will ride together," he murmured, still holding my hands.

"Is that supposed to be a comfort?" I asked and laughed a little, breathless laugh. "There will be hundreds of people around us!"

He grinned at me and tightened his hold on my hands. "I admit that it is a cold comfort that I am offering you. But perhaps this can be a token of warmer things to come," he replied in a low, husky voice. With that he drew my hands to his lips and covered the backs of my hands with hot kisses that tightened things low in my body with an almost painful feeling of desire.

**ooo**

Then he escorted me back to the Lady Míriël in the most proper and casual manner. It was not until much later that I found out that he had asked the Lady Míriël's permission to go and meet me alone at the water's edge that morning.

We shared breakfast with the hobbits, Legolas and Gimli. Afterwards we mounted our horses and left the Field of Cormallen for Minas Tirith.

Although there were indeed hundreds of people around us, it was a most enjoyable ride under the tall trees of Ithilien on that sunny day at the end of April in the year 3019 that passed all too quickly with shared jokes and much laughter.

**ooo**

We reached Minas Tirith in the morning of the first of May.

Although it was still early, the sun was already warm and the sky was the deep, sweet blue of summer. The wall of the Rammas Echor had been rebuilt during our stay at Cormallen, but although the fields of the Pelennor had been cleaned and tilled, nothing grew on them during that first year after the battle.

But when the Host of the West returned to Minas Tirith that day, led by the returning King, it was almost impossible to see the brown earth of the fields. During the weeks we had spent at Cormallen all of the refugees had returned to Minas Tirith, and when it became known in Gondor that the King would return to the city on the first of May, the whole country was on the move to the capital to come and see the coronation of the king. Now the Fields of the Pelennor were filled with people. Children with baskets of flowers in their hands lined the road towards Minas Tirith, throwing sweetly scented blossoms at our feet as we passed them by.

We had dismounted upon entering the Pelennor. Aragorn walked alone at the front of the host. He was dressed in mail, in black and in silver and he wore a white mantle that was fastened at the throat with the green elfstone of his calling. He did not yet wear a crown, but only a thin ribbon of _mithril_ with a single diamond set on his forehead. Even so, it was clear at the very first glance that he was the king. His majesty shone brighter than the brightest jewel any crown could hold. When he entered the Pelennor before everyone else, a cheer went up from the Rammas Echor to the Tower of Ecthelion that did not die down until Aragorn reached the Great Gates.

But just behind Aragorn followed the surviving members of the Fellowship of the Ring.

Gandalf, dressed in shimmering white robes, walked along in easy strides. Next to him came Frodo, a slight reluctance at being in the public view that way discernible in the almost hesitant way he moved forwards. Behind them followed Legolas, who was clad in forest-green, with the great golden bow that had been the present of the Lady Galadriel at his back, and Gimli in shining dwarfish armour, both of them unconcerned by the huge crowd of onlookers, moving as if they were all alone in the wilderness. Then came Pippin and Merry, the first in the uniform of the guards of Minas Tirith, the second in the livery of a squire of Rohan. And behind Pippin and Merry it was Sam and me, trying to walk with our backs straight, our heads held high and no blushing.

We in turn were followed by Éomer and by Prince Imrahil, both of them wearing a white cloak similar to the one that Aragorn and Gandalf wore.

Our escort was the company of the Dúnedain, dressed in silver and grey, and only behind them followed the Host of the West, lines upon lines of warriors in glittering armour, bearing proudly the standards of their home lands.

As we walked towards Minas Tirith, I realized that the city's walls were white again, pure and shining. The soot of the siege had been washed away, and the cracks in the walls had been carefully repaired. As we walked towards Minas Tirith all the bells of the city started ringing, adding their brassy harmonies to the cheers of the crowd. From every tower of the city the white banners of the stewards were unfurled and flowed, gleaming brightly, in the wind.

At the Great Gates the Guards of the city stood in two long lines with three rows each to the sides of the road. They had drawn their swords in salute, building a tunnel of glittering steel through which we had to pass. To the sides of the gates many musicians had been placed and as Aragorn entered this tunnel of swords, they struck up a rousing march. The gates had not yet been repaired, but there was a length of black fabric held in their place by two young squires in the uniforms of the guards.

Before that black cloth stood Faramir the Steward and Húrin of the Keys. But to their sides knelt the other captains of Gondor, Elfhelm the Marshal, Erkenbrand and the other leaders of the Mark. Éowyn was there also, but she did not kneel, though she inclined her head in deep respect.

When Aragorn stepped out of the tunnel of raised swords, the bells were stilled, the music stopped, the crowd calmed down.

Silence fell.

Then a single bright clarion sounded.

Faramir and the keeper of keys walked slowly towards Aragorn.

Behind them followed four guards of the citadel in full armour and silver helmets. They bore silver tipped spears on their shoulders and fastened those spears was a chest of black wood inlaid with silver.

Faramir stopped in front of Aragorn and looked at him in silence for a long moment.

Then he knelt down. He looked up at Aragorn with a smile on his still pale face. He held out the white rod of a sceptre that he had carried. In a clear, ringing voice Faramir said, "The last Steward of Gondor begs leave to surrender his office."

Aragorn accepted the sceptre.

But when Faramir had risen to his feet, it was Aragorn who knelt down, and he offered the sceptre back to Faramir and said, "That office is not ended, and it shall be thine and thy heirs' as long as my line shall last. Do now thy office!"

Faramir accepted the sceptre again and called out in a voice that echoed all through the Pelennor, "Men of Gondor, hear now the Steward of this Realm! Behold! One has come to claim the kingship again at last. Here is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, chieftain of the Dúnedain of Arnor, Captain of the Host of the West, bearer of the Star of the North, wielder of the Sword Reforged, victorious in battle, whose hands bring healing, the Elfstone, Elessar of the line of Valandil, Isildur's son, Elendil's son of Númenor. Shall he be king and enter into the City and dwell there?"

As a great shout of "yea" roared up from the Pelennor to the Citadel, I realized somewhat belatedly that the act with the sceptre had been a part of the ceremony from the beginning.

But before I had the time to shake my head at my slow uptake, the ceremony moved on.

The black and silver chest was carried forwards and Faramir opened it. On black velvet I glimpsed the silver circle of a crown. A thrill of excitement swept through me as I realized that I would really, truly witness the crowning of the first King of Gondor in many centuries.

"In the days of old, the future king would receive the crown from the hands of his father ere he died, or, should the dire need arise, take it with his own hands from his father's tomb. As today things have to be done otherwise, it is the Steward that is honoured with the presentation of this sign of office and high majesty. For this is the Crown of Eärnur, the last King of Gondor, in days long past. It has been brought here today from the silence of Rath Dínen to never ending cheer. For behold, the King has returned to us, long live the King!" Faramir took up the crown and held it out to Aragorn.

Aragorn accepted the crown and held it high into the air. The crown was silvery white and was shaped like the wings of a sea bird, similar to the helms of the guards, fashioned to preserve the memory of the Kings come over the Sea. Seven star-like jewels were set about the circle of the crown, and at its front was a single great diamond set in the glimmering metal. As Aragorn held the crown aloft, a sunbeam touched that singular jewel, and its light went up like a great white flame. A sigh swept up from many thousand hearts filled with awe and reverence.

In a deep, melodic voice Aragorn then chanted the ancient promise of Elendil himself when he had come up out of the Sea on the wings of the wind:

"_Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien, Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar __tenn__' Ambar-metta!_ Out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth I am come. In this place I will abide and my heirs, unto the ending of the world."

Instead of placing the crown on his head, Aragorn then returned it into Faramir's hands.

As he did so, he said in his clear, northern way of speaking: "By the labour and valour of many I have come into my inheritance. In token of this I would have the Ringbearer bring the crown to me, and let Mithrandir set it upon my head, if he will; for he has been the mover of all that has been accomplished, and this is his victory."

Having said that, Aragorn stayed kneeling.

Hesitatingly, his cheeks on fire, but his eyes bright with joy, Frodo came forwards and Faramir knelt down again and gave the crown to the ringbearer. Behind Frodo Gandalf had walked up to Aragorn and knelt down next to him. Frodo carried the crown to Gandalf, who accepted it, gracefully inclining his head to the hobbit.

Then Gandalf rose and showed the crown to the people gathered all around.

"Now come the days of the King," Gandalf called out. "May they be blessed while the thrones of the Valar endure!"

With that the white wizards gently placed the crown on Aragorn's dark head.

Aragorn rose to his feet and turned around so that all the people that filled up the Pelennor could see him. King he was, and like a King he looked! He was taller than all the other men standing gathered around, and although his face revealed the dignity and wisdom of many years, he shone with the unbroken strength and energy of youth. There was a bright light in his grey eyes, and the great diamond that was now on his forehead shone like a living star.

"Behold the King!" Faramir cried and bowed deeply.

A roar of cheers swept through the Pelennor and up to the Tower of Ecthelion. With a sweeping sound of many trumpets the music started playing again. To the notes of the trumpet Aragorn walked up to the black fabric that was held up where the gates had been, and he drew Andúril and sliced this barrier of cloth neatly apart.

Now Minas Tirith and indeed all of Gondor was his.

As Aragorn entered the city, white roses were thrown down from the walls and towers above the gates, and in that shower of sweet blossoms the King of Gondor finally returned to his people, his country, his city and his throne.

**ooo**

Many songs have been made about the Return of the King to Minas Tirith, but I can say that none of them do justice to this moment of triumph and grandeur and joy. And I know what I am talking about, because I was there on that high day of May in the year 3019 of the third age of the world.


	45. Girl Talk

**45. Girl Talk **

We entered Minas Tirith behind Aragorn. Together with Faramir and Éowyn we followed Aragorn from the Great Gates to the Citadel on the Seventh Circle of the city. Everywhere were garlands of flowers. Blossoms covered the flagstones of the pavement; white banners streamed from the towers and from many windows, singing and cheering greeted every step of our company. I have to admit that I felt more than a little overwhelmed by the time we reached the Citadel.

The last part of the coronation ceremony would take place at the foot of the Tower of Ecthelion. The Dúnedain, the captains of all the companies of the Host of the West, the fellowship and assorted dignitaries and embassies from all over Middle-earth gathered at the Place of the Fountain.

Again clarions sounded, and a squire of the Guard was presented with the Banner of the King. Not the one Arwen had made, that one was put up in the Hall of Merethrond behind the throne, but one that looked exactly like it. Music played and the squire ran up the stairs to the tower. The music played on, and after a few minutes another clarion sounded from the top of the tower to announce that the squire had arrived with the banner.

Drums rolled in a deep and slow rhythm, and the white colours of the Stewards went down at the top of the tower.

Then the drums stopped.

After a moment of silence, the music began again with a flourish. Many harps and bright clarions and lilting flutes played a triumphant hymn as the colours of the King went up on the tower of Ecthelion. When it was up, the wind caught at the fabric at once and unfurled the banner in its full magnificence: bright silver on a sable background, a flowerin tree with seven stars and a winged crown set above the tree.

All of us cheered and clapped and hooted and whistled.

The King had returned.

The King had indeed returned!

But at Aragorn's insistence the white of the Stewards went up again, on one of the smaller masts gracing the top of the tower. And because there was another king present, a third flag went up on the second smaller mast as well. This third banner showed the by now familiar green field with a white horse in full gallop running across it. The colours of Rohan. With the changing of the colours the official part of the coronation was over.

But the festivities had only just begun.

**ooo**

In the great hall of Merethrond a feast had been prepared for the coronation. But as coronations go it was rather a small party, I guess.

There was one long table for the dignitaries of Gondor and Rohan and the various ambassadors and emissaries. A second long table was set to the other side of the hall for the Dúnedain and all the captains of the Host of the West. A third, smaller table had been placed in front of the dais with the throne, for the really important personages of the realm and the guests of honour.

I was probably as disconcerted and uncomfortable as Sam when I discovered that I had been placed at this third table. Somehow I felt that I did not deserve the honour to be included among the Fellowship. Even though I had shared so much with my friends during the long months on the road, I still felt strange about belonging to the Fellowship. I breathed easier when I discovered that I knew almost all of the guests of honour. When I realized that I had been placed to the left of Faramir, and Éowyn was only one place further down the table, I almost relaxed. Across from me Elrohir and Elladan were seated, and next to them came Gandalf and Frodo, on either side of Aragorn.

But my heart started to race and my breath caught in my throat when the seat to my left was taken. Éomer sat down next to me and gave me a smile that made my heart spin.

"My lady Lothíriel. I see that I have been very fortunate in my dinner partner for this celebration," he murmured. I shuddered at the sound of his voice. Just hearing his voice made my skin prickle as if he had stroked across my naked body.

I could only nod. With Éomer being so close to me, there were no two coherent thoughts left in my brain. I had been in love before. But I had never been affected like that; being hardly able to breathe, or talk, or think. I had always managed to keep thinking, at least. I did not really enjoy the fact that my brain seemed to stop working more and more frequently when I was in close proximity of Éomer. **He **did not seem to be at a loss for words. Just now he was cheerfully greeting Faramir, asking how things were going and joking. He seemed to be totally at ease while I slowly relearned how to breathe.

To toast the new king, we were served golden goblets filled with sparkling white wine from the coast.

Faramir led the toast with another ringing: "Behold the King!"

Everyone cheered and in a wave of gleaming gold and silver every goblet in the hall was raised to Aragorn. How Aragorn managed not to blush at all this praising and toasting and bowing and cheering, I will never know. He remained as calm and noble as ever, a slight smile playing around his lips, his grey eyes warm and friendly.

The wine was good. Fruity, a hint of lemons and oranges, with a hint of vanilla and saffron at the edge. A little bit like good Californian Chardonnay. When I wanted to put my goblet down, Éomer intercepted me. He looked at me with an intense gaze of dark brown eyes flecked with amber highlights. I lost myself in his gaze, completely mesmerized. A fool. A fool falling in love. _I think those amber flecks come out only when he's happy_, I mused.

"Lothíriel, where are your thoughts, pray tell, my lady," Éomer murmured. "Your eyes go all deep and green when you are thinking so hard."

I swallowed hard. My eyes go green? My heart pounded in my ears.

"I was thinking if those amber flecks in your eyes only appear when you are happy," I said. I realized that I had said exactly what I had thought. Once again I felt my cheeks grow hot and hoped that it was only heat and not colour that suffused my face.

Éomer's smile deepened. I noticed that he had dimples. His eyes seemed to grow darker, too, making the amber flecks shine all the brighter. "There is no mirror at hand, so that I could ascertain what my eyes look like right now. But I can tell you that I feel very happy indeed this evening. Will you share a drink with me? May I drink to your visit of my home in the near future?"

"You may, my lord," I answered, my voice husky and halting. But at least I did not sound like the complete moron. He touched his goblet to mine, and then we drank, our eyes locked.

I took a large swallow of the cool wine, savouring the soothing cool liquid.

We were interrupted by the soup being served. I was grateful. I needed a diversion. Éomer's presence was affecting my brain. If this process wasn't going to stop any time soon, I would be reduced to a gibbering idiot at a single glance. _For heaven's sake, Lothíriel_, I reprimanded myself silently. _You've been in love before. Quit acting like a fifteen year old girl!_

And why was I acting like a fifteen year old teenager? I sighed into my soup. Perhaps because I was falling madly in love with an attractive man, and there was no chance in heaven or hell to do anything about the growing tension of desire inside of me in the foreseeable future. I sighed again. I was undeniably in love. I was also undeniably horny. I sighed again. You do a lot of sighing when you are in love.

But somewhere among the sighs, mirth bubbled up inside me.

After darkness, war and pain now there was peace and sunshine and happiness, and Éomer.

If not in my bed, at least at my side for another excellent dinner. And perhaps even some dancing later on. The last sigh turned into a big, radiant smile on my lips.

In German there is a beautiful expression for this kind of feeling when you are in love, this wild vacillation between happiness and depression.

We call it "himmelhoch jauchzend – zu Tode betrübt". You can't really translate it, of course. The dictionary says "up one minute, down the next". But that's not it at all. It's this feeling of being sky-high with this bubbling, squeeing feeling of happiness, this need to hug the world (one minute), and then feeling low and blue and sighing with the weight of the world and the uncertainty of the future (the next minute).

You would think that you outgrow these silly feelings sometime. But you don't. It's like the common cold. You can catch it with seventy as easily as with seventeen. But the older you get the more stupid you feel with it.

**ooo**

Between sighs and contemplation of the _conditio humana amante,_ I had eaten and enjoyed my dinner without really noticing what I had eaten at all. Well, I don't think it was anything icky. It was Aragorn's coronation dinner, after all.

After dinner many of the guests went for a little walk to aid the digestive processes.

When Éowyn came up to me with flashing grey eyes, asking me to take a walk with her, I could tell that this was not what she had in mind, but as I had no idea whatever I had done wrong this time, I obediently followed her outside. We walked to a small garden behind the kitchens.

Éowyn made sure that no one was within earshot, then she rounded on me.

"You – my brother – speak up!"

I blinked at her.

Was she mad at me that her brother liked me? It had been her idea, after all.

"What do you want to know?" I asked.

"What do I want to know? Well, tell me what happened!"

"Nothing."

"Nothing, she says," Éowyn snorted. "Look at you! You can't take the eyes off each other!"

I stared at her. I still did not understand why she was angry. "Yes?"

"We are talking **my** **brother** here, Lothíriel!" Éowyn's eyes were blazing now.

"It was your idea that I should go to Cormallen and be your brother's dinner partner," I replied, frowning. But it was slowly dawning on me that all of a sudden Éowyn was worried about my intentions towards her brother.

"Yes, I did. I know I did," Éowyn moaned. "But I did not think it would work, for heaven's sake! My brother's only interest was his horses up until now!"

"Well, it did work," I commented dryly, feeling my stomach flutter with the admission. "It worked rather well. In fact it's worked so well that I am reduced to a pot of sighing and blubbering jelly in your brother's vicinity."

"You are what?" She stared at me for a long moment, frowning, her eyes piercing. I don't know what she saw in my face or in my eyes, but suddenly the frown left her face to be replaced by a growing grin. The grin grew to light up her whole face. Then she started chuckling softly. Finally the chuckles turned into great whooping laughter. Her laughter was contagious. And I already felt silly enough after my stint of hot cheeks and sighs at the dinner table. I felt my lips crinkling up. The next minute I spent trying to suppress completely undignified giggles. With no success. The giggles quickly turned into unhinged laughter.

When we finally calmed down, we were in each other's arms, red-cheeked and tousled from sharing our laughter.

At long last, serious again, I turned to Éowyn. "I had no designs on your brother when I went to Cormallen, Éowyn, you have to believe me. I did not want to fall in love with Éomer." I paused. I liked the sound of his name. I did not sigh, though I wanted to, but went on briskly. "I only wanted to take my message to Prince Imrahil and see my friends again. That is all. The rest… simply happened."

"I believe you," Éowyn said simply. "You get a really stupid look on your face when you say his name."

"Oh, thank you," I replied. "And what do **you **look like when you hear the name 'Faramir'?"

I was rewarded with a soft, dreamy-eyed smile.

"That's an entirely different matter," Éowyn objected.

**She** did sigh.

Then her face brightened. "You know, there will be a lot more fuss around your wedding than around mine." This seemed to delight her. I felt a wave of nausea rising up in my stomach.

"Míri, the Lady Míriël of Dol Amroth has appointed herself as my chaperone," I said bleakly.

"The Lady of Dol Amroth herself?" Éowyn's eyes sparkled. "That's bloody brilliant."

"Should you use such words? And why is that brilliant?"

"Well, the Dol Amroth family is one of the most ancient and noble families in the realm of Gondor. If the Lady Míriël watches out for you, there will be not as much trouble," Éowyn explained.

I did not get her point. "Trouble?"

Éowyn looked at me and sighed. Then she took my hand and patted it as if she were talking to a small and not too bright child. "Because you are not a descendant of one of the noble houses listed in the books of the kings. The Lady of Dol Amroth will help there. Perhaps Aragorn can help, too. After all, he's the King of Gondor now."

"Books of Kings?" I gaped at my friend.

"Yes. Surely you did not think that the heir to the throne of Rohan may marry just anybody? The future queen of Rohan has to be a virgin of one of the families listed in the…" Her voice trailed off, as she remembered something. "Ooohhh," she added softly. "That is indeed a problem."

I felt myself grow cold all over. Up until now I had not really thought about what being in love with Éomer, with Éomer **King**, with Éomer, the **King** of Rohan, would mean. I stared at Éowyn, her voice echoing in my ears. _Oops…that is a problem…_I should have realized that a future king would have to marry a virgin from a noble family of his country or an allied realm.

I was neither.

It had only been a dream. Only a dream.

"Does he know?" Éowyn asked abruptly.

"Do you think that's the first thing I tell anyone?" I looked at her in disbelief.

Éowyn pursed her lips. "Well, probably not. Hm… let me see… Boromir, Faramir and I. You will simply have to lie and say that you had a husband in your world and he died."

I stared at her, shocked. Then I slowly shook my head. "I won't lie. I like Éomer. I am falling in love with Éomer. I will not lie to him. Not now. Not ever. And besides, I think that Aragorn knows about Boromir, too. And it's not only Boromir."

"Not only Boromir?" At this Éowyn's voice rose somewhat shrilly.

"Calm down," I hissed at her. "Not what you think."

I paused. Middle-earth, 3019, and Germany, 2004, were light-years apart.

_And damn it, he hasn't even asked me yet, _I thought. _Perhaps he never will! Thank God. He hasn't asked me yet. _But there in a corner of my mind I heard this horrible, nagging voice again, the voice of conscience never sleeping, always waking: _But he has almost asked you, that day at Cormallen. And you did not say no to that almost, either. And if he asked, you would say yes, wouldn't you? Or at least you would want to._

I exhaled deeply. "Look, Éowyn, I have told you that I come from another world, with a society that is very different from this one."

"And that pertains to your virginity in what way?" Éowyn raised her eyebrows at me, her voice cool and mocking.

I clenched my teeth and forced myself to stay calm. _Stay calm. _"Where I come from, it is quite normal for young women (or men) to have several lovers before settling down, marrying, having children and all that. And you don't even have to marry. It's perfectly normal to simply live together, have children and be happy without marrying at all." How was it possible that something that _was_ entirely normal where I had grown up suddenly sounded cheap and trashy to my own ears?

Éowyn simply stared at me.

"Please, Éowyn, don't look at me like that! I am not a tart. I am not a slut or a whore or something. I am not at all casual with love and sex. Please, don't look at me like that!" I begged her. "And if you tell me now that… I can't be anything to your brother, I will simply disappear. I am a good girl. Or at least I was, in my world. Really."

"Stop it, Lothy…" Éowyn said in an absent-minded way. I wondered where her thoughts had gone off to. Then she looked me straight in the eyes. "You could have lovers? And no one would object? You could live together, have children and everything and not marry?" she asked, with a wistful expression dawning on her face.

I did not quite understand what she was talking about. "Well, where I lived, most people eventually married. Most of my women friends fell in love for the first time in their late teens. Some of them had their first lover then. Only we call them boyfriends. Most of those first relationships did not last. When you are that young, you don't really know what you want from a lasting relationship, I guess. Although some do, it depends on the person. I think in the years between twenty and thirty you get more serious about love and relationships. Most people I know try out living together for some time before they marry, try out if they really belong together. But eventually, most people do marry. So, you see, where I come from it's normal that you are not a virgin when you marry. I just did not think of it that here it might be different."

"Why should you think it could be different here?" Éowyn asked.

"In my world, it was like it is here today in earlier ages. Girls were married very young and as virgins whenever possible. But where I lived, those customs died out some fifty, sixty years ago. I just did not think about it. Please, believe me; I did not do this on purpose!" I hated the fact that I sounded so pleading. But if I had to make myself fall out of love again, I did not want to lose my only woman-friend in this world along with my love.

Éowyn looked at me, slowly shaking her head. "Lothy, I've said it before, and I guess I will say it again and again. Forgive me if I say so, but you are an idiot to leave your world for this one. Gods! What would I give to get to know Faramir before… what would I give to be able to keep my freedom!" She shook her head again, sighing deeply. "You are truly mad, Lothy. But you are a sweet girl nevertheless." Then she blinked at me, remembering another important question that was on her mind. "How many?"

"How many what?" I stared at Éowyn, completely confused by now.

Éowyn cocked her head. "Lovers, of course."

I felt heat creep up my cheeks. I gulped. "Three with Boromir."

"Only two in your world?" Éowyn gaped at me. "But why? If you could…"

I frowned at her. "I did say that I am not casual with my affairs, didn't I? I only ever had sex when I was in love. Really, truly in love."

"Then whatever went wrong?" Éowyn towed me to a wooden bench under a rose brier.

Apparently more girl talk was on her mind. I felt like running away. Instead I sat down next to her and told her about my lovers. "The first one was in my first year at university. My first time. I was a late bloomer. But it did not work. He went to another university, we tried to keep the relationship going, but it just did not work. Finally he found another girl, and that was that. The second one was a year before I came to Middle-earth. He was nice; it was nice but only nice. He was all for marriage and settling down. I was not so sure. Finally I realized that I did not want to settle for nice. I called it off. And that was that… until Boromir happened. And I have already told you all about that."

Éowyn looked a little disappointed. "The way you tell it, it doesn't sound all that exciting."

I shrugged. "Sorry. I said that I'm a good girl. I am boring. I know."

"Goody good." Éowyn grinned at me. "But I guess my brother's after changing that."

I covered my face with my hands and moaned. "Didn't you just go to great lengths to tell me that I have to be a virgin and of noble birth if there's a chance in heaven for your brother and me? Éowyn, I don't want to have an affair with your brother!"

To my embarrassment I had to blink away tears. I so did not want to cry. I was astonished when Éowyn put an arm around my shoulders and hugged me. "I don't want you to have an affair with my brother either. He's all the family I have left. I want him to be happy. For all of his life."

"Then what are you talking about?" My head was hurting and I felt those silly tears pricking in my eyes. I had been so happy only a few hours ago. And now a perfectly normal, not to say boring past that included two nice boys and one dead hero was about to shatter any future **this **Lothíriel might have with Éomer King.

"I did not realize just how different our – worlds are, before. It is not your fault that you are not… the way you would be, had you been born here. But you will have to tell him," Éowyn said simply. "I am not going to say that he will like it. Men are strange in those things. But he will understand. I think," she amended. "After all, how could you have known that you would end up here? You had to obey the customs of your country just as much as I had to obey the customs of Rohan."

I blinked at Éowyn. My heart quickened its beat. "Do you really think so?" It was hard to keep my voice even. Could it perhaps be possible…? "And what about Boromir?"

"Boromir is dead," Éowyn said curtly. Then another thought occurred to her and she looked me up and down with narrowed eyes. "Are you pregnant? **That **would be a **real** problem."

I gulped and shook my head. "No, I can't get pregnant –" I raised my hand to stop another outburst beforehand. "Wait! Let me finish. Where I come from there are several quite reliable methods to prevent the conception of a child – that's one of the reasons why we have the freedom to try out making love without marriage. We can make pretty sure that there won't be any unwanted children. One of the newest and most reliable methods is a little stick that is implanted into the skin of your arm. It gives off a substance that prevents you from getting pregnant and in many cases it makes your monthlies disappear."

Éowyn stared at me with wide eyes. "And you have such a stick in your arm?"

"Yes. It's good for another two years. Here, you can feel it quite easily through the skin."

I rolled up my sleeve and held out my arm to her. Gingerly she placed her fingertips on my Implanon.

"There is really something in there, under your skin," she sighed, shook her head and smiled at me. "Well, that's alright then. But I still think you are mad. A world where you can work, a world where you don't have to marry, a world where you can have love with no strings attached, no monthlies to boot, and you choose to come **here** – you are absolutely insane."

"Don't worry," I could not restrain myself from saying. "I don't think it's a hereditary condition."

For a moment we sat in silence and I rubbed my pounding temples. Where the hell had all those problems come from, all at once? And why tonight? Why couldn't that conversation have waited until tomorrow, or next week or…? And how and when should I tell Éomer – the bloody King of bloody Rohan – that I came from a world of sex, drugs and rock'n'roll? Was there a chance in hell that he would really understand? Or at least accept it? And when all that was said and done, I was still a nobody in Middle-earth. They might count me among the fellowship now and throw flowers at me along with the others. But I did know something about the way society works. In the long run, there would be a lot of people who cared much more about my family name than what ever I had been doing traipsing around the wilderness with nine unmarried men.

"Don't worry, Lothy. We'll find a way." There was a hint of a giggle to Éowyn's voice. "Especially if your madness is confined to your person. We'll find a way. Everything will be alright. And I get to watch a woman who could be free and do anything that she wants being led right into slavery. This is simply too good to be true! Did Lady Míriël tell you about our custom of betrothal?" A giggle escaped Éowyn's lips.

"Yes, she did. A year and a day. And may I remind you that **your** time of betrothal has only just started?" I replied grouchily.

Éowyn only snorted. "But my brother has not even asked you yet! And with a royal wedding they will observe every old-fashioned custom they can remember from way back when Eorl the Young rode across the Wold. **I** on the other hand have almost convinced Faramir that we could shorten our betrothal what with the war and everything."

"**That** is a low blow," I said. My head was beginning to hurt now in earnest. How in hell had a little girl-talk turned into Éowyn's version of Dante's inferno? I had gone from happy to desperate to hopeful in less than an hour and the party had only just begun. But Éowyn was already ahead of me again, her thoughts racing to topics where no Rohirric virgin had ever gone before.

"Would you tell me how it is, to make love?" Éowyn asked, her eyes gleaming expectantly. "I mean, I know the technical side of it, of course, having helped with births and the breeding of horses, but how does it feel? And--"

"Éowyn," I interrupted her. "You are my dearest friend in Middle-earth. And I will do everything for you. But you cannot expect me to talk to you about sex right now!"

**oooOooo**

* * *

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Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter.

Yours  
JunoMagic


	46. Friends

**46. Friends**

"Gods, Gandalf, I am so tired," I moaned. I had for once slept late. It was the day after the coronation. It was around noon. I had finally managed to drag me out of my bed, throw a handful of cold water into my face, dress and stumble downstairs. I felt mangled and my head was aching. 

In the kitchen I found a middle aged woman already busy with the preparations for dinner. She gave me a deeply disapproving look. I guess I could count myself lucky that she nevertheless served me a breakfast of bread, honey, fruit salad and tírithel on a tray to take into the living room. The living room was a mixture of living room, dining room and study. Connected to the kitchen by a wooden door, there was a dais with a long dining table and twelve chairs. Three white marble steps led down to the living room part of the room.  
At the other end of the room was a large fireplace, already stocked with great logs for the evening. To the right side of the room were three large windows with deep window seats looking out over the lower levels of the city to the south. On the left side of the room bookshelves reached from the floor to the ceiling.

There I found Gandalf, peacefully smoking his pipe and leafing through an old book. I slumped down on a chair at the great dining table hoping that the tírithel would restore some strength to me. It did not really work. If anything, I felt even more tired. I sighed and rubbed at my temples.

Gandalf raised his head and looked me up and down. Then he took the pipe from his lips. "Go back to bed," the wizard said and put the pipe back into his mouth.  
Ha, bloody ha… as if anybody who is not grievously hurt would ever go back to bed in the middle of the bloody day around here, I thought irritably but did not reply to the wizard's suggestion.

But I did take my time to finish breakfast. Afterwards I felt slightly better but only very slightly. Éowyn's brand of girl talk was still reverberating in my mind. And damn it all to hell I missed Éomer, although I had not been at all comfortable in his company after Éowyn's rousing comments. I wondered when and how I would manage to tell him all about me.

"Where is everybody?" I asked the wizard. Gandalf raised his head again from the book. He seemed a bit surprised that I was still there and a little exasperated at the disturbance of his reading. "Up and about," he said. "Somewhere. Not in more trouble than usual. I hope."

The house we were staying in was a white villa on the sixth circle of Minas Tirith.  
Aragorn had appointed this house for the use of the fellowship as long as even one member of our company stayed in Minas Tirith. The Lord of Dol Amroth and the Lady Míriël had wanted me to stay with them, and Éowyn had pleaded with me to stay with her, probably thinking that I would be the most lenient chaperone she was likely to get. But to my surprise all members of the Fellowship had argued vehemently that I belonged to them and therefore had to stay with them in the villa. Even Legolas had departed from his usual noble reserve and had told me with the indication of an elegant elvish bow, "You belong here, with us, for as long as the fellowship remains." And Sam had stepped up to the Lady Míriël, had bowed to her very deeply and promised with a very solemn expression on his face that he would watch my every step. No lenient chaperone for Lothíriel. Sigh.

But remembering that, I felt blissfully happy nevertheless. I had felt for such a long time that I did not really belong with the Fellowship because I was not in the stories, because I was only an addition, the tenth walker, more an encumbrance than an asset. Now I knew that Merry, Pippin, Sam, Frodo, Gimli, Legolas, Gandalf and Aragorn thought differently. They really thought that I belonged with them. To have friends to really belong to. I sighed again but this time with happiness. Friends who really wanted me to stay with them, friends, with whom I had shared so many days and nights, so many experiences…

I sat down in an easy chair across from Gandalf, cradling my second cup of tírithel. I tried to think about plans for today, what I should do and where I should go. But again and again my mind returned to the conversation I had had with Éowyn last night.

Suddenly Gandalf closed his book. He looked at me, frowning deeply. "Would you please stop thinking quite so loudly, my dear? Your thoughts running in circles like that makes concentrating on my book virtually impossible."  
Wizards. As if it is my fault that he can read my mind. I sighed again. I felt that I did rather a lot of sighing lately. "I'm sorry, Gandalf. I'm just so… upset. You know, up one minute, down the next. It's silly. I know."  
"Himmelhoch jauchzend, zu Tode betrübt," Gandalf commented in a gruff voice and in perfect German. "I know. And it is really silly. You worry too much, Lothíriel. If you knew more about the history of earth, you would not be as worried as you are now. It's true that there seems to be a custom of marrying virgins of high birth among all the royal families in all the many worlds – with a few very strange exceptions. But customs and reality are two very different things. Monarchs marry and have married commoners all the time. Virginity is just a way to make sure that the heir will be legitimate and that won't be a problem with that clever little device in your arm."  
I gasped. How did Gandalf know about Implanon?  
The wizard grinned at me unrepentantly. "I'm a wizard. It's my 'job' to know things. Last but not least, I think you underestimate Éomer. And that, my dear, won't do at all. Now, will you do what I told you to do?"  
I stared at him. "Do what?"  
The wizard shook his head. "Go back to bed and leave me to read in peace. You are weary from travelling from Cormallen to Minas Tirith and all that turmoil of heartache that you insist on having. Go back to bed. Sleep through the day. We will share a nice dinner among the Fellowship tonight with no Éowyn and no Éomer to upset you. Then you go to bed again and sleep some more. And tomorrow the world will look all the better for it."  
He was really serious. His eyes were filled with warmth and he winked at me in a friendly way. How was it possible that the mightiest wizards of the world could act so… grandfatherly? Gandalf's smile grew even broader. He probably had heard that thought, too. Anyway, he raised one of his magnificent bushy eyebrows at me and asked, "Now will you go back to bed like a good girl?"

I really did feel exhausted. Not so much from the travelling, but from the emotional upheaval I was experiencing. Falling in love does not feel good at all. At best you feel like a fool. At worst you feel absolutely horrible. Love is different. Love is so much more than falling in love, being in love. I had thought twice in my life that love was within my reach. But both times love had escaped me. I had been left alone and wondering what had gone wrong, whether there had been any opportunity for love in those relationships at all. I think with Boromir there had been a possibility for love. But Boromir was dead.  
And Éomer?  
Éomer…

"Go – to – bed!" the wizard repeated, disturbing my musings. He enunciated each word slowly and carefully, making sure that I got the hint this time.

What could I do? I nodded meekly and crept back upstairs to my room and into my bed. I think Gandalf must have put some small spell on me, because I could not think about love or Éomer or any other serious matter anymore and was asleep almost instantly.

**ooo**

When it was time for dinner, Gandalf told Pippin to go upstairs and wake me. Sometimes even white wizards make mistakes.

I did not wake from several knocks on the door.  
I did not wake from my name being called in bright hobbity voices.  
I did not even wake when my door was virtually crashed by someone hammering against it with his fists.  
I was woken by several bodies jumping me.

"Pippin, Merry, Frodo, you can't do that! She's a lady!" Sam's voice held a note of desperation. "He told us to wake her, not to attack her!"  
"Well, I am waking her, Sam! Come on and help us!" That was Pippin.  
"But that's not proper!" Sam pleaded.  
"She's wearing leggings and a shirt," Frodo said. "Come on, Sam. Help us!"

I looked around wildly, trying to make sense of what was happening and found that Frodo was holding my arms tightly, Merry was sitting on my legs and Pippin was tickling my feet with a feather.

I am very ticklish.

I convulsed into laughter, at the same time trying to get away from Frodo and Merry. But that's difficult when you can hardly breathe with laughing. I wriggled like a landed trout. In next to no time I was squeaking and hollering with laughter. But I could not get free.

Finally I managed to gasp: "Sam! HELP me for god's sake!"

I should not have said that. Sam is all fight and no keeping back. He simply jumped Merry. Both of them fell right on top of me, knocking the air out of my lungs and giving Pippin even more opportunity to tickle my bare feet. I was beyond laughing. I was only screaming by that time, tears of laughter rolling down my cheeks. My screams, however, alerted Gimli and Legolas.

And that's how a tickling attack turned into a pillow fight that ultimately destroyed my bed.

Not because our weight took it down, though it creaked ominously when Gimli threw himself into the mêlée. It was destroyed because Gandalf joined in the fray.

Gandalf kind of lost control when Pippin decided to try and see if the wizard was ticklish at all.

Yes, Gandalf is ticklish.

Very ticklish.

More ticklish than I am.

And I don't accidentally throw flames.

I was lucky that I was not in my bed anymore but trying to get my pillow away from Gimli. With no success by the way. Legolas was not helping me.

There was a sudden flash of lightning.

When we could see again, my bed had been reduced to a heap of smoking ashes.

"Wow," Merry said.  
"Cool," Pippin added.

But at least he let go of Gandalf.

We finally calmed down, sitting on the floor of my room, gasping for breath, now and then emitting a last unhinged giggle. I had known that adults can be just as silly as kids. I had been not so sure about dwarves, elves and wizards. Now I know. I guess they can be pretty silly, too.

"That was fun," Pippin finally said, beaming at everyone.  
"Fool of a Took," Gandalf commented, still breathing heavily.  
"It was you who destroyed my bed," I told the wizard.  
"You're awake now, aren't you? You don't need a bed at the moment," Gandalf replied grouchily.  
"You can have my bed, Lothy," Sam offered, always courteous. "I don't mind sleeping on the floor."  
"No, thanks, Sam. I think it will be possible to get it replaced. And I am indeed awake now." I giggled. "Very awake. Wide awake." I was. Awake. And I felt as relaxed as you can get without… ahem…

"Why did you wake me, by the way?" I asked Pippin. "And in that… kind of unusual manner, if you don't mind my asking?"  
Pippin grinned broadly. "'Cause it's dinner time and Gandalf said we should wake you nicely. I thought that was rather nice. And you did not react to our knocks before we tried my way of getting you awake."  
"And whose fault might that have been?" I asked no one in particular.  
"You needed your sleep," Gandalf said, somewhat sheepishly, his nose colouring in a pretty pink shade.

We were very late for dinner.

**ooo**

Aragorn was already waiting when we finally came into the living room.

He looked at us, taking in our flushed, red-cheeked and dishevelled appearances and frowned.  
"What in Arda did you do up there?"  
Gandalf gave him an innocent look out of his almost baby-blue eyes. "An emergency. There was a 'mus musculus domesticus' under the Lady Lothíriel's bed." The wizard winked at me. I rolled my eyes at him. German and Latin. Wizards are worse than teachers… they simply have to know everything.  
"A what?" Aragorn stared at the wizard.  
"A mouse. The Lady was quite upset." Gandalf gave the King of Gondor an innocent smile. I glared at the wizard. I like mice. I would never burn my bed because of a mouse.  
Aragorn raised his eyebrows at us. "And to get rid of that mouse you needed four hobbits, one elvish warrior, one stout dwarf and one wizard? And how did you get rid of the mouse if I may ask? Did you scare her to death with you laughter?" He sniffed lightly. A ranger has very acute senses. His nose is just as keen as his eyes or ears. "Or did you set fire on the poor animal's tail?"  
Gandalf shrugged and grinned sweetly at his friend. "It worked so well with the werewolves that I thought it would be rather a success with the mouse, too."  
I don't know how I managed to keep a straight face at that, but I turned to Aragorn and asked, "By the way, could you perhaps arrange it for me to get a new bed?"

Four hobbits, one dwarf, one elf, one woman and one wizard collapsed into laughter once more.

**ooo**

All of the above made for a very relaxed dinner that night. Just a couple of friends who had shared good times and bad times. We ate a three course dinner and drank red wine and dark beer (the hobbits and the dwarf).

After dinner we moved to the easy chairs in front of the fireplace. Aragorn, Gandalf, the hobbits and the dwarf produced their pipes. Legolas produced a lute he had bought that day.  
It had been made in Dol Amroth. To my surprise Legolas told me that there were no finer lutes and harps than those made in Dol Amroth, and no finer lute or harp players than the musicians of Prince Imrahil. Keeping away from the smoke of the pipes, we settled down in a wide window seat laid out with thick red cushions, and Legolas showed me the basics of playing.

Then he played what he called a simple lullaby for us. It was not at all simple. Well, perhaps it was for him. It was a sweet and yet sad tune that went straight to our hearts. I caught a look of Gimli listening to that song, and there were tears in the dwarf's eyes. Love takes many forms. Here was one of them.

There's a Greek myth about how each soul is only one half of a soul and spends the life searching for his or her missing half. Most people think this story is about love in the marriage kind of way, with sex and all that. But it isn't. Or the original myth isn't. It's about who you are, what makes you – you. About the one person who will complement your every thought. Most people will think, well, isn't that what love and stuff is all about? But it isn't. You can truly love in all ways that love offers, and not have that feeling about your lover or your husband. This missing half part is different. I guess it can come with the marriage kind of love, but it does not have to. Most people never find this missing part of a soul kind of love anyway, I think. Perhaps it's only a myth and probably not applicable to Middle-earth either – no Greek mythology there, after all. But as I watched Legolas playing his lute for Gimli, and Gimli's eyes were brimming with tears, I felt sure that this myth is true. Here were two souls that had found each other.

They belonged to each other in a way not many lovers of any race or gender ever belong to each other. Perhaps that's the reason why they never found a lover to settle down with, at least here, in Arda. But there's always the possibility of Aman and a foursome happiness there. Ever since that night in Minas Tirith I have believed that the stories are true that I read once, long ago, in a different life, in a different world. I believe that when the time comes for Legolas to pass away into the West, he will not go alone. And I would very much like to believe that they will find a nice dwarf lady and a nice elleth there and settle down in that western paradise together, that they will have many children who grow up to become just as good friends as their Dads are, and that they will live there happily ever after until the end of time.

I'm sentimental as hell. But I guess you know that by now.

When the tune was over, everyone sighed happily.

"Ah… that was beautiful," Gandalf said appreciatively. "I did not know that you can play like that, Legolas."  
The elf shrugged. It was a liquid gesture, a French shrug, saying so much more than mere words. But he did add in a very dry voice. "My father made me learn when I was but an Elfling. I never really took to it, but these lutes they make at Dol Amroth are truly special. I could not resist. I really enjoy playing this instrument… however, I would be grateful if you did not pass that on to my father. I'd never hear the end of it."  
"Were you a quarrelsome Elfling then, huh?" Gimli asked with a grin appearing in his bushy red beard.  
Legolas raised his delicately slanted eyebrows. "Depends on whom you ask that question."  
Gandalf snorted but did not comment.

For a moment the room was silent. It was a comfortable, companionable silence. Suddenly a thought occurred to me. There was a question I had wanted to ask for a long time now, but there had never been a good opportunity to ask it.  
"By the way, Gandalf, I've wondered and wondered, and I still have no clue. When I met you that day in Franconia, what was it that you were doing there? I can't believe that you were only waiting to get me into trouble," I asked.  
"You can't?" Frodo commented wryly. "You should ask Bilbo sometime about the incident with the dwarves and Gandalf's involvement in it."  
I had to restrain myself from giggling as I saw that Gandalf had the grace to look slightly abashed at that comment.  
"Well, what did you do in Franconia at the time?" I repeated. "Or is it some great, dark secret you may not talk about?"  
The wizard blew out a couple of smoke rings that slowly whirled up to the ceiling, where they stayed, wavering slightly, but not vanishing into thin air like the smaller smoke rings the hobbits were blowing into the air. Then Gandalf looked at me, and his eyes were sparkling with mirth.  
"No, it's not a great secret. I can tell you what I did there," he replied, the corners of his mouth curling up with a smile.  
I raised my eyebrows at him and waited patiently for him to continue.  
"Well," the wizard said. "If you insist… I bought a new pipe. In Nuremberg. I am rather fond of that pipe manufacturer there. You know, Vauen."

He held out his pipe to me. The stamp with the letters "Vauen" was easily recognizable in the beautifully grained wood of the pipe. But what I had not expected was that I would recognize the pipe, too. It was the "Gandalf"-pipe that Vauen produced to go with the movies of "The Lord of the Rings".

The wizard winked at me.

**ooo**

When I went back to my room at the end of the evening, I discovered that the heap of ashes in my room had been replaced with a new bed. And although the room still smelled a bit of fire and ashes, I fell asleep at once and with a smile on my face.

There are not many things in any world that are better than a cosy evening spent with friends.


	47. Clothes

**47. Clothes**

When I woke to the pale golden sunshine of early morning, the faint smell of ashes and burnt wood still lingered in my room. I stretched in the warmth of the covers and realized that I felt wide awake and cheerful. A good day's and a better night's rest had done me good.

I rose to my feet and padded to the table with the ewer and the washing bowl next to the window. For a moment I remained standing in front of the window, careful not to look straight down in an effort to escape that queasy feeling that sheer heights of any kind give me.

_How incredibly beautiful, _I thought.

The sky was a deep, but bright blue, an almost ultramarine hue that seemed to go on forever with no clouds at all. Only at the horizon far away to the south, where the plains of South Gondor dropped away to the sea, there was a faint white mist which made it impossible to see where the sky ended and the earth began. Although it was still early in the morning, the sun was already warm and blazing. It was the beginning of May and in Gondor that is already summer. There was just a little snow left on the peak of Mindolluin. It glittered silver and blue in the morning light. The lower slopes of the mountain were covered with heather and gorse, which were already starting to bloom, spreading a soft violet and yellow veil across the sides of the mountain.

But what made me catch my breath this morning were the plains of Lossarnach arrayed in a mosaic of a thousand shades of green on the western banks of the Anduin, and the great river itself. The Anduin meandered southwards through fertile green fields as a great silver stream.

I sighed. It was hard to believe that to the east and the north the Fields of the Pelennor stretched brown and barren around the city.

I turned my back to the window and my attention to getting clean. When I had brushed my teeth I stared for a moment pensively at my toothbrush. It was high time for a new one. But I had seen the twigs or brushes used here. While the twigs of birch or willow that were used to clean away things hanging between your teeth were not too bad in the way of toothpicks, the brush I had seen Éowyn use was… _bristly_.

And I yearned for something to use as a toothpaste. In the end I decided that my toothbrush would last for a while longer, though it was not much to look at anymore and cleaned it carefully before putting it away again.

I dressed in my least faded blue jeans, a blue shirt and a black tunic, thinking that I might get rid of the tunic later on when the day grew really hot. At least there were no customs about women not being allowed to wear trousers in Middle-earth. Although most women in Minas Tirith wore dresses and skirts and those idiotic scarves to cover their hair, the Rohirric women mostly dressed in trousers and long tunics, as did the women of the Haradrim. But I guess the deciding factor in the history of women's clothing in Middle-earth were the elves. Among the elves there is no real difference between _elleth_ and _ellon_. They may do and they may wear the same. It's entirely up to the individual. Although human customs were of course different, thousands of years of associating with the other culture had prevented Gondor from turning into one of those southern countries which hide their women from head to toes under a hundred layers of fabrics and veils. It was not very common to dress in trousers and tunic for a woman, but some did that, especially the few women working as guards or traders. Thank god!

The mere thought of those heavy dresses in the summer heat made me shudder with disgust.

But looking down at the thinning fabric of my jeans, I knew that I had to do something about my clothing soon. The months on the road had been hard on my clothes.

Hell, they had been hard on me, I thought, rubbing at the scars around my wrists.

**ooo**

This morning I was one of the first at the breakfast table. When I came down, only Legolas and Sam were already up. I got myself a cup of tírithel and a bun studded with raisins and almonds and sat down at the table so that I could look out of the window. From the ground floor of the villa you had a lovely view of the white buildings on the sixth circle of the city, which gleamed like alabaster in the sunshine of the morning.

"This looks as if it's going to be a beautiful day," I said to no one in particular.

"Summer is coming," Legolas replied. "It will grow hot in Minas Tirith ere the week is over."

"Probably," I agreed. Then I noticed Legolas' grin. "You really know how the weather's going to be, do you? Keen Elvish senses and all that?"

The elf's grin broadened. Rangers, elves and wizards. No wonder there is no such thing as a weather forecast in Middle-earth.

"So what are you up to today?" I asked.

"Haldir has asked if I wanted to accompany him on a hunt in the mountains. I think I will go. Gimli said he wanted to. It will be good to get away from all that stone of this city and breathe some forest and mountain air again." Legolas looked impatiently at the door. "That is, if this dwarf will be down in time."

"I could go and wake him," Sam offered.

"I don't think allowing hobbits to wake someone is a good idea," I cautioned the elf. "Remember what happened to my bed."

"That was Gandalf's fault," Sam grumbled.

Legolas smiled at the hobbit. "That is true. Nevertheless I think I will content myself with waiting and hoping."

He did not have to wait long. Before I had finished my first cup of tírithel, a grumbling, grouchy dwarf appeared in the doorway with his beard still damp from washing and already dressed for hunting. Gimli was not a morning person. I think he said something like good-morning to me, but it could also have been "drown yourself". After two cups of the Gondorian coffee-cocoa mixture, he looked more alert, almost recognizable as the fierce dwarf he usually was. That was just as well, because when he had finished his drink, Haldir arrived with Elrond's sons and Éomer, all of them dressed for hunting.

In the flurry of greeting and getting ready to go, Éomer managed to approach me.

Just to see him from a distance made my heart speed up, but when he came up to me and indicated a kiss dropped into my palm, my stomach did a hard flip. Éomer had tied his dun-golden hair at the nape of his neck, but there were a few stray tendrils that played around his face, making him look softer. His dark eyes seemed to tell me sweet things that he could not say out loud.

"Lothíriel," he said, his voice as dark and warm as his eyes.

I felt myself grow bright with a huge smile. "Éomer."

"Éomer! Let's get going!" That was Haldir. _I'm going to kill that elf._

"I have to go now, my lady. My companions are eager for the hunt."

"And you are not?" I asked, a little breathlessly.

"The game that I would rather hunt is right here," he told me. "But I promised. And I keep my promises."

"Éomer! We want to go!" That was Elladan. _I am going to kill that elf, too._

"And so you should, my lord. Promises are important."

Éomer took my hand in his. His grip was strong and warm, but his fingers stroked the back of my hand in a most delicate caress. "Yes, promises are important," Éomer agreed, his voice a velvety murmur. "Could I ask a promise of you, my lady Lothíriel?"

"Of course you may," I whispered. "If it is in my power to fulfil."

"The day after tomorrow I will renew the Oath of Eorl to the King of Gondor. It is an important and most solemn ceremony. I would like to ask you to come and witness this hour of triumph and friendship, my lady. Your presence would fill my heart with gladness."

My heart thumped heavily. "Of course, my lord," I answered, feeling slightly breathless. "I will come. It is an honour that you ask me."

He bowed deeply over my hand, slightly, ever so slightly touching his lips to my skin.

I shivered and felt the heat rise to my cheeks.

"Éomer King! The deer won't wait for us!" Gimli called from the door. "Take your leave from your lady; we have things to do today!" _I am going to kill that dwarf, too._

"I'm coming," Éomer called out.

He walked to the door, but before he left, Éomer turned around once more and gave me a smile to brighten even the darkest day.

Then they were gone.

I sighed deeply.

**ooo**

Not long after the hunters had left, Frodo, Merry and Pippin turned up for breakfast. Sam joined them for seconds and in next to no time the room was ringing with talking, laughter, jokes and good-natured bantering.

Gandalf only took the time for a cup of _tírithel_, then he was gone to the Citadel, advising Aragorn on a matter concerning the embassy of Khand.

I spent some time sitting quietly in the corner with my second cup of _tírithel_, watching the hobbits and daydreaming. What should I do today?

Perhaps I could visit Éowyn. I should definitely visit Míriël. And I had to go and check on Mithril in the stables of the Guards. Éowyn would kill me if the beautiful Meara lacked in anything. Not that this was likely. The Guards took good care of their horses and of the Rohirric horses stabled with them at the moment. But I wanted to see Mithril. I really loved the horse. And although I was by no means an accomplished rider, my skill had increased greatly during the last few weeks of riding with Éomer. Perhaps there would be time for some riding tomorrow?

Finally I decided to call on the Lady of Dol Amroth first, and then go and see Éowyn. But before I had the chance to do either, a knock sounded on the front door of the villa, and moments later the Lady Míriël was led into the living room by a maid-servant.

The hobbits were up and bowing at once. Míriël curtsied prettily, which made Sam blush.

I was given a quick hug and a kind smile. "You look a lot better, Lothíriel. I thought that the travel and the excitement of… the coronation," here she raised her eyebrows pointedly, "did not agree with you. You seemed to be very exhausted."

"I can tell you…" I said, groaning.

Míriël's lips twitched slightly. Was she trying to keep from laughing?

"Then come with me for a walk and do tell me. My lords periannath, it was nice to meet you again." She nodded at the hobbits who scrambled to another round of bowing.

Míriël led the way and I followed obediently. Why did I think that she had more in mind than a simple walk?

Because she had more in mind than a simple walk. We were just around the corner, and I was still gathering my courage to talk to her about the night of the coronation and Éowyn, when she told me what she was really up to today. "Éomer King has asked me if you would accompany him and his sister to Rohan. He said his sister asked for you to come especially. She needs a female companion. And don't I know that's the truth! You know, it's really wonderful to see that Éowyn has finally found a friend. Friendship among the nobility is always difficult, but Éowyn of Rohan has had it more difficult than most. They will leave in five days, on the eighth of May.

"Now," Míriël continued in a more serious voice. "Ordinarily it would not be quite proper to allow you to ride with them on your own." She grinned and shook her head. "It was funny to observe Éomer's despair when I told him that I cannot accompany you. I think he imagined I would not allow you to accompany him on your own… And I am not sure if it is a good idea, either, mind you." She gave me a stern look. "I know I can trust Éomer. He's a trickster and no mistake, but he's a good man. – I remember when he was a boy, they spent a summer here at Minas Tirith – the pranks he would get into with Boromir and Faramir…" She smiled in reminiscence.

"You knew Éomer when he was boy?" I stared at Míriël.

"Yes, of course. I was fifteen when he was born. I think it was the year 3001, the summer I am thinking about. Yes. I was twenty-five. Éomer was ten. A rascal! We spent the summer in Minas Tirith for some political reasons. That was actually quite horrible. It gets very hot here in the summer. Dol Amroth is much nicer. Anyway, I remember well how Boromir and Faramir fooled around with Éomer that summer. – Éowyn and Éomer had been allowed to accompany Théoden King and Prince Théodred that summer. A special treat for Théoden's beloved sister-children. Théodred was the same age as Boromir and had been made Second Marshal of the Mark that very year. Boromir was already Captain of the Guard then, but Faramir was still a few years away from his coming of age. They had so much fun." She sighed, and her eyes grew sad. "Just a year later Éomer's father was slain by orcs. His mother grieved herself to death. She died at the end of the very same year. It was a long time until I heard Éomer laugh again." Míriël's eyes darkened with the memory. "He had to grow up quickly."

I realized how little I knew about Éomer, his life and his family. A cold shiver ran down my spine. How could I ever expect to fit into his life? It wasn't only that I knew almost nothing about his life or his family. I also knew almost nothing about the history of Rohan, about its laws, about its politics, about the ties of its noble families this way or that way. I was a foreigner. How could I ever expect…

"Don't worry, Lothíriel. You will learn all that is necessary," Míriël told me in a comforting voice. Another mind-reader, apparently. Or perhaps only motherly intuition. I gave her a weak smile. _If that was the only problem…_

"But now to matters at hand," Míriël changed the subject briskly. "As I was saying, Éomer charmed me into agreeing that you may accompany Éowyn to Edoras." She grinned at my heartfelt sigh of relief. "I know how hard it is to be parted many weeks when you want to get to know someone, Lothíriel. I have not forgotten how I felt when I was fifteen and was not allowed to see Imrahil even half as much as I wanted to. And as a female companion to Éowyn, this journey is actually an appropriate trip for you to make. That is, if you behave yourself." Another stern look was cast my way.

"Yes, yes, of course I will!" I said quickly. "But why can't you come with us?"

Míriël smiled at me. "You would really like to have me along? To interrupt you and Éomer watching the sunset together? You really are a sweet girl, Lothíriel! And I must admit, I would have gladly accompanied you. Not only because it would have been much more proper than sending you along as Éowyn's companion, but because I really enjoy your company. However, I have simply too much to do here in Minas Tirith to be able to leave right now."

"Why?" I asked. "What's happening at Minas Tirith that you can't get away?"

"Oh, but surely you know that, Lothíriel! There's a wedding to be arranged, and not just any wedding," Míriël told me.

"Of course!" I cried, feeling excitement sweep through me. _Arwen and Aragorn! _"How could I forget about that! Do you know when the wedding is going to be?"

Míriël smiled. "Of course I know. It will be held on midsummer's day. So be sure that you return in time. I will be the Queen's first lady-in-waiting. Only in the way of an honorary title, of course, but still." She sighed. "That wedding will give me some headaches yet. It's too bad that Faramir can't marry right now, then I would have at least some help. But with her uncle not yet buried, there's no way to shorten their betrothal, no matter what Éowyn has in mind. You see, the first family of the realm is of course the king's family. The wedding should be arranged by the King's mother or any other female relative. But as Aragorn's closest female relative is actually his betrothed that is not possible. The second family of the realm is the Steward's family. But there are no women left of that line either. Thus the planning of the wedding has been dropped into my lap."

"Why is that?" I felt confused. First families, second families, weddings, ties, betrothals… it was easier to get the hang of German civil law than of Gondorian and Rohirric nobility.

But Míriël only smiled patiently. "It's because Dol Amroth is the third family in the Books of Kings. At the moment my husband is second in line to the stewardship. But I am sure that won't stay that way for much longer, with Faramir's betrothal about to begin. However, the notable lack of noble ladies in the first and second family of the realm has made the royal wedding my responsibility. And only two months to prepare everything! I can understand that Aragorn is eager to have his lady with him after such a long time. But he does have no understanding at all of what the arrangement of a royal wedding means, especially so close to the king's return to the throne and the victory against the Enemy. I shouldn't even be here right now, there's so much to do!"

Explained like that it actually made sense to me. "Then why are you here? If you are so busy? Is there anything I could help you with?"

She grinned at me. "No, dear, thank you for your offer. But there is something I need to help **you **with."

"Me?" I looked at her, astonished. What was she talking about?

"Clothes. You will need an appropriate wardrobe. I am taking you to the best dressmaker in all of Gondor. You have to be suitably attired. Though it is appropriate to wear trousers, their cut and their fabric should reflect your standing."

I blushed. I knew that my clothes had seen better times. "But," I objected and my cheeks grew very hot with embarrassment. "But… Míriël, I don't have any money. I can't –"

"You don't have to, Lothíriel. I have offered to help you and I mean it. Everything will be paid for. It is my gift for you. And now close your mouth, smile at me and say 'thank you'. We have a lot to do today."

I closed my mouth.

I smiled at her, thinking once again that I was truly blessed in my friends.

Then I opened my mouth again. "Thank you, Míriël. Thank you with all my heart!"

**ooo**

The dressmaker's shop was filled to the bursting point with all kinds of fabrics.

There were fabrics in all the colours of the rainbow and in every imaginable pattern and texture. The shop belonged to a tall, silver haired woman with bright grey eyes and a thin nose.

She had three girls working for her who jumped at her every nod.

She took one look at me and raised her left eyebrow. "You are the lady of the Fellowship, aren't you?"

Míriël smiled and gave me a little push to step forwards. "Yes, this is the Lady Lothíriel," she said. "Lothíriel, this is Lady Darla of the Golden Scissors. Darla, my Lothíriel needs a complete new wardrobe. Most especially she will need a gown for the King's wedding."

Lady Darla sighed. "Míriël, you ask the impossible, as always. Do you know how many gowns I have to finish already for the wedding?"

"Darla, please."

The dressmaker was already back to scrutinizing me with a deepening frown on her face.

"You lost quite a lot of weight, didn't you? You are much too thin. You spent many hard days on the road, didn't you?"

I nodded. Although I had not minded losing a little bit of weight – which woman on earth would mind that? – I did not like the way my womanly curves had virtually disappeared during the last months.

Darla looked back at Míriël. "There's no sense in making a new wardrobe for her now, Míriël. She has the look of a woman with lovely curves, though she's not much to look at right now. With the strain of the war behind her, she will hopefully get back her figure. It would be a waste of time and fabric to fashion a whole wardrobe for her now, only to have to replace it in a year. Perhaps three dresses and three outfits with trousers and tunics? I heard that the King of Rohan is going to betroth her, is that true?"

I only gaped at her. I had already been surprised that the dressmaker had known at a glance just who I was, but how could she have heard about Éomer?

_Fama volat,_ the little voice of logic commented in my brain. You need no tabloids for gossip to spread.

Míriël only grinned. "Well, Éomer King has asked me to allow the Lady Lothíriel to accompany his sister to Edoras for a visit."

Darla nodded with satisfaction. "Then she will need four outfits with trousers. One in leather for riding. Now, my lady, if you would undress, please, so that I can take your measures?"

I gulped. I had never been to a dressmaker before. On earth there was no way I could afford custom-made clothing. I felt absolutely awkward to undress in front of this keen eyed, old woman. But as I had no choice, and I knew that I needed new clothes, I swallowed down my excitement and undressed. It was not bad. She did not say anything else about my figure. She did not comment on the scars. But I did hear Míriël gasp when she saw the scars I carried from the kidnapping by the orcs. They were not that bad. But they were still fairly new and pink with the healing flesh. I was happy when Darla was finished with taking the measures and I could dress again.

"Well, that's it," the dressmaker said, making a last note in her ledger. "I hope that everything will be ready in the middle of June. The dress for the King's wedding might take a little longer. It depends on how many girls I will be able to get as aids. But it will be finished in time. I promise."

"You are a true jewel among the dressmakers," Míriël said, her voice filled with honest admiration.

Darla laughed. "That's what you say every time, my dear. But thank you for your custom. It will be a pleasure to make the young lady shine."

She smiled at me. I blinked in surprise. I? Shine? Up until now I had been content to try looking pretty.

"Thank you, Lady Darla," I said politely.

We took our leave and walked back up to the Citadel. Míriël had several meetings arranged for the afternoon concerning the upcoming wedding, and I still wanted to visit Éowyn.

**ooo**

I found Éowyn in a suite of rooms in the royal apartments. When she saw me, she hurried towards me, giving me a quick hug.

"Where have you been all day? I am bored to bits! I wanted to go with the hunters, but Éomer told me to stay here. He says it's still too dangerous. But HE may go. That's entirely unfair."

"Dangerous? Why?" My heart sped up.

"Oh, not for him, silly. But there might still be orcs and things about where they are going today. Men! Pah!"

That was not exactly a comforting answer. But as there was nothing I could do about it, I answered her first question. "Lady Míriël took me to her dressmaker."

Éowyn gasped. "To the famous Darla of the Golden Scissors? My, you lucky girl! There is no finer dressmaker in Rohan and Gondor! And she will take no new customers since forever. Well, I guess she will make an exception for the Queen. But for you! You are really lucky! I'm envious. And the best thing is, it is said that the Lady Darla is not at all fuzzy about trousers. You know, some of the noble ladies' dressmakers are. If they had their way, we would spend our days stitching and hiding under a veil. How was it? Pray tell!"

Darla must be really special, I thought, if her name could make **Éowyn** talk about dresses.

I felt a warm glow of gratefulness spread inside of me. I was truly, truly blessed in my friends.

"I am to have four outfits with trousers," I explained. "And one of them leather, for riding. And three dresses. She won't make any more, because she thinks I will regain weight during the next year."

"And so you should! You might even look like a Queen when you get your curves back."

Looking down at her own slight figure, she sighed. "Not much chance there for me," she added.

"But you are beautiful," I objected.

Éowyn shrugged. "I don't really care. It is much more important what you do with your life than how you look. Did you know that Faramir will be made the Prince of Ithilien tomorrow? That is a lot of responsibility. And it's a dangerous fiefdom, too. There are still many dark creatures roaming the eastern mountains. Do you think he will allow me to lead my own company?"

I looked at Éowyn's blazing eyes. Her strong, slender figure. Her arm was much better. Merry had told me that she was already beginning to exercise with her shield again.

"I don't really see how he could stop you," I said finally.

She smiled then, a bright and beautiful smile. "No, he couldn't, you are right. And the most wonderful thing is, I believe he would not, will not, either. I believe he will let me be."

Éowyn stood in a bright beam of sunlight. The stern, pale woman I had met in Edoras at the beginning of March was gone. Now Éowyn's eyes were sparkling with hope for a life that would make her happy and content. She was beautiful and smart and brave. She would be a great leader of any company. A shield maiden in the true sense of the meaning.

Of course Faramir would let her be.

He would be a fool to try to change her, to try to cage her in.

And Faramir was no fool.

He would let her be.


	48. The Oath of Eorl

**48. The Oath of Eorl**

It was late in the morning, the fifth of May in the year 3019 of the Third Age.

I was walking with Éowyn, the Lady Míriël and the Prince Imrahil towards the Hall of Thrones in the White Tower to be present for the ceremony of the Oath of Eorl. Afterwards there would be another celebration in the Hall of Merethrond.

The Royal Palaces of Minas Tirith are built behind the White Tower of Ecthelion at the western side of the Seventh Circle of the city. They are huge, almost like a separate city in themselves, but there is no wall to surround them, only seven circles of white marble moats filled with clear water and white and pink water lilies. The Hall of Merethrond is the largest building of the Royal Palaces, placed to the north of the White Tower.

White marble steps lead up to the Hall of Thrones at the bottom of the White Tower. It is an austere hall when it is not decked out with garlands of flowers and thousands of candles for a celebration. The famous white stone of Minas Tirith is set off by smooth black stone carved from the Ephel Dúath ages ago. The style of the hall was faintly Romanesque. High barrel vaults and immense Doric pillars. The black and white of the pillars and walls reminded me of an Italian church I had visited once, long ago, a world away. The cathedral of Orvieto in Tuscany, to be exact. Not that this memory had any relevance here and now. The hall was filled with a clear, white light streaming through windows set high in the walls. In alcoves below the windows were white marble statues of long ago kings and queens, proof of Gondor's long and noble history, going back to the realm over the sea.

The end of the hall was built like the choir of a great Romanesque cathedral, but it was looking to the west, to drowned Númenor, where the ancient kings had come from. In the choir-like round a dais of white marble was placed with seven broad steps leading up to a great, white throne. Behind the throne the banner of the King that had been made in a labour of love by Arwen in long nights of patient weaving and stitching in Rivendell was elaborately displayed. The third step up from the floor was broader than the others, and to the right hand side was a smaller throne. This seat was carved from black marble, and behind it the white banner of the Stewards was hung from a silver tipped spear.

When I entered the hall with Éowyn, the Lady Míriël and Prince Imrahil, the curving side aisles of the hall were already filled with dignitaries of Rohan and Gondor and a good many other countries besides. To the left of the nave I saw the sons of Elrond stand with Haldir, the march warden of Lothlórien. Behind them the Dúnedain of the North stood like grey shadows. Prince Imrahil led us right to the front but to the right side of the nave. The Prince and his lady would stand next to the throne of the Steward, the Lady Éowyn and I would be allowed to stand next to them. Faramir was sitting already on the black throne of the Steward. He was still pale and looked sombre. Somehow I had the feeling that he did not like to be here, or to sit on this throne. But when he noticed Éowyn a glorious smile shone on his face, lighting his eyes up in a warm, blue-grey colour.

The high white throne of the King was still empty, but Gandalf stood at its left side, motionless and white, appearing almost like one of the white statues displayed in the hall.

But when we had taken our places, two heralds in the traditional colours of Minas Tirith, black tunics with the white tree stitched on front and back, and white shirts with wide sleeves, walked up to the dais and took up their position to the right and the left side. The hall was alive with the whispering and murmuring sound of many voices, like the trees of a great forest in a storm. Somewhere down the hall deep drums rolled a traditional tattoo. The heralds lifted their golden clarions to their lips. The clarions even sounded golden. Bright and clear and kingly.

When their fanfare had died down, the hall was completely silent. Then the great ebony doors of the hall opened. Aragorn, no, King Elessar Telcontar, King of Arnor and Gondor, Lord of the Western Realms entered the Hall of Thrones.

He wore silver mail and a cloak of black sable adorned with shining diamonds and a collar made of ermine. His dark hair fell in soft waves down to his shoulders, his beard was neatly trimmed, his grey eyes shone even brighter than the diamonds on his cloak. I watched him walk through the hall in even, powerful strides. A king of kings, returned from the depths of time and legend. I shivered faced with such majesty. Where was the ranger, where was the friend in that king on the white throne?

But I knew who would enter the Hall of Thrones next and that knowledge alone made my heart beat like a drum and my pulse sing in my ears. Then the deep voices of the drums rose again, but above them soared the sonorous sound of bagpipes and the bright song of silver harps. Again the heavy doors of the hall were opened.

Walking to the solemn rhythm of the music Éomer King, King of Rohan and the Riddermark, stepped into the Hall of Thrones. He was clad in the red leather armour he had worn in the war. The bulk of the armour made him even more impressive than his muscular build normally did. Already a tall, strong man he seemed like a giant of the old tales as he slowly proceeded down the hall. His hair only just touched his shoulders in a flood of gold and dun and darkness, like the fur of a lion, or the dried grass on the plains. My breath caught in my throat. I gasped lightly. Another shiver ran down my body. There was no doubt that here, too, was a king worthy the hymns of the bards. For a moment Éomer halted in his stride, and his dark eyes sought mine. It was only a second. Perhaps not even that. But his gaze reached my very soul, even from the distance.

Another roll of drums sounded and Éomer approached the throne.

To my surprise it was Faramir, who spoke first.

"Who is it who approaches the King of Arnor and Gondor, the Lord of the Western Lands, and what is thy desire?"

Éomer halted three paces in front of the dais. In his deep, clear voice he replied. "Éomer, son of Éomund am I. King of Rohan and the Riddermark I will be. I have come to do homage unto Elessar Telcontar, King of Arnor and Gondor and Lord of the Western Lands. I have come to renew the oath that bound my fathers and my fore-fathers of old. I have come to swear fealty to Gondor. Verily I have come to freshen the blood that sealed the Oath of Eorl the Young as it was sworn on the Fields of the Celebrant."

"If that is thy desire, then step forth and do homage unto the King, Éomer, son of Éomund,"

Faramir ordered.

Éomer then climbed up to the third broad step leading up to the white throne. There he halted again and knelt down in front of Aragorn. "I have come hither today to do homage unto thee, your majesty."

Aragorn rose from his throne and walked down to where Éomer was kneeling. He looked down at Éomer, and his keen grey eyes were warm with friendship. "Art thou then willing to become completely my man?"

Éomer inclined his head and held both his hands out to Aragorn. Aragorn took Éomer's clasped hands in his, holding them tightly. "Verily," Éomer said in a ringing voice. "I am willing."

Aragorn then drew Éomer to his feet and kissed him on the mouth. "As my brother I greet thee. As my brother I honour thee."

Then Aragorn sat back down on the throne while Éomer remained standing on the dais before him. Cheers reverberated through the Hall of Merethrond. The first part of the ceremony, the homage to the King, was concluded.

Now followed the second part, the renewing of the Oath of Eorl, an oath of fealty, and an oath of blood, Éowyn had explained to me. Faramir rose now from the black throne of the Stewards and walked down the steps to Éomer. There he knelt down and drew a dagger from his belt. He offered it hilt first to Éomer.

"If that is thy desire, then take this blade and swear thy oath of fealty to the King," Faramir declared.

Éomer took the dagger from Faramir and raised it before him. "Verily I have come hither today to renew in my blood the Oath of Eorl."

Without a moment's hesitation Éomer cut the dagger across the palm of his swear-hand.

In a rush of crimson his blood dropped down to the white marble floor in front of the throne.

I had shuddered involuntarily at the soft sound of steel against flesh and closed my eyes against the view of the first fresh welling of blood. But now I opened my eyes again, and all that I could think of was how they would ever manage to get the white marble floor clean again. Or would they allow the stains to set? To turn them into an icky brown memorial for this most solemn oath?

But then all thoughts were driven from my mind when Éomer spoke again, renewing the Oath of Eorl as it had been sworn when Rohan had first become a kingdom many hundreds of years ago. His voice was dark and mellow and beautiful and firm.

"By the One and the Valar and my own life's blood this oath shall bind me, Éomer, son of Éomund, who will be King of Rohan and the Riddermark. I will to King Elessar Telcontar, King of Arnor and Gondor, Lord of the Western Lands, and to his heirs, be true and faithful, and love all which he loves and shun all which he shuns, according to the laws of the One and the Valar and the order of the world. Nor will I ever with will or action, through word or deed, do anything which is unpleasing to him, but I shall stand with him in matters of life and limb and earthly honour against all foes; and never will I bear arms for anyone against him or his heirs. On condition that he will hold to me as I shall deserve it and stand with me in faith and loyalty in matters of life and limb and of earthly honour against all foes. So may the One help me and all the Valar."

The Hall of Thrones was utterly silent as Éomer ended his oath and returned the dagger to Faramir. Faramir accepted the dagger but then turned it over to a servant in the livery of the citadel who had been waiting unobtrusively behind the throne of the steward.

Now Aragorn spoke again, "I thank thee for thy oath and I joyfully accept thy fealty, Éomer, son of Éomund, who will be King of Rohan and the Riddermark. But I tell thee now that there can never be a word of giving or taking between us, nor of reward, for we are brethren. In happy hour did Eorl ride from the North, and never has any league of people been more blessed, so that neither has ever failed the other nor ever shall fail."

Éomer replied, his eyes and his voice warm with returned friendship, "Since the day when you rose before me out of the green grass of the downs, I have loved you and that love shall never fail."

Then the music went up again, and with the music rose a great cheering that seemed to shake the very pillars of the Hall of Thrones.

**ooo**

Afterwards the doors of the Hall were opened and the various dignitaries and ambassadors and heroes of the war filed out and went about their business.

Aragorn rose from the throne and embraced Éomer. Then he motioned to a servant to bind Éomer's hand. Cutting your palm hurts like a bitch. I know that from failed attempts at cooking. I felt my stomach lurch when I saw how Éomer bit down on his lip as the cut was cleaned and bound. _Silly girl_, I told myself. _He's a warrior. That's only a tiny nick. That's nothing to him._

I watched how Faramir walked over to Éomer and embraced him, too. They stood on the dais talking softly, two kings and a lord, heroes and friends. For once I wished that I had a camera, or at least the ability to paint. But I didn't and I can't. So I had to settle for trying to fix this scene as firmly as possible in my memory. Three tall men of charisma and dignity as they stood between the white throne and the black throne in a golden beam of sunlight.

They would shape the future of Gondor and Ithilien and Rohan, and this future would be a good one for all the peoples of those realms.

When I made to leave, Míriël stopped me. "Aragorn wants you to stay. There will be some refreshments." Indeed, servants appeared with silver trays, offering goblets of red wine to everyone who had remained in the hall. Everyone was: Gandalf, the sons of Elrond, Éomer, Faramir, Haldir, Imrahil, Míri, Éowyn, I and Aragorn, of course.

Aragorn put his arms around the shoulders of Faramir and Éomer and led them down the dais. He was taller than the other two men, but Éomer was more powerfully built. In another life, in another world, Éomer would probably have to watch his diet, I thought irrelevantly and had to suppress a grin.

"Why don't we take the wine outside?" Aragorn asked.

I bet he knew just how much Faramir hated the Hall of Thrones and that black throne. Servants opened the doors for us, and the ones with the silver trays trailed out after us as we left the hall for the sunlight and the blue sky of the Place of the Fountain. It was a beautiful day. A kingly day. Actually, ever since the war the weather of this year had been wonderful as if the One, or the Vala responsible for the weather in Middle-earth, was in the mood for celebrations, too.

The Place of the Fountain was a place of classical beauty. Squares of lawn surrounded a fountain of white marble that had been built to resemble the seven circles of Minas Tirith. The outer edges of the squares of lawn were decorated with white marble sculptures. But these sculptures were not kings or warriors, but famous poets or singers or actors – in other words, at that time I had no notion at all who was represented by the beautifully sculpted figures. Around the murmuring waters of the fountain, white marble benches were placed in front of each square of lawn and at the sides of the benches large pots with small orange and lemon trees had been arranged. The only thing that marred the beauty of the Place of the Fountain was the great white tree in the north-western square of lawn.

The White Tree of Minas Tirith was dry and dead, an ugly, withered skeleton of a tree.

Nevertheless we went to the fountain to drink to the renewed alliance between Rohan and Gondor. When everyone had their goblets and we were looking expectantly at the King of Gondor, Aragorn gave us an impish grin. I guess somewhere beneath the shimmering mail, the cloak of his office and the crown of his grace, there was still at least a little bit of the ranger left.

Aragorn lifted his goblet for the toast. "Brothers!" He said simply.

"Brothers!" The men called back and lifted their goblets in return, whereas we ladies raised our goblets in silence but with smiles that were just as bright as the smiles of the men.

We drank a ceremonial mouthful each and then returned the goblets to the servants who offered water and fruit juices in exchange for the wine. Apparently you don't really drink a huge goblet of wine so early in the morning, not even in Minas Tirith at the court of the king.

Aragorn turned to Éomer. "Now, as you know, we have laid Théoden the Renowned in a tomb in the Hallows, and there he shall lie forever among the Kings of Gondor, if you will. Or if you desire it, we will come to Rohan and bring him back to rest with his own people."

Éomer sighed deeply. "That is a most gracious offer. But Théoden shall at last come to rest among his own people. However, until then much has to be prepared. When all is made ready, we will return for him; until then let him sleep here for a while longer."

Silence fell for a moment. Only the sound of the water falling down from basin to basin of the white fountain was heard, and high up in the sky there trilled the song of a mountain lark. Although I think everyone of us thought of fallen heroes and loved ones forever dead and gone just then, the grief was not dark and choking anymore. It was turning gradually into a bittersweet ache deep in our hearts that did not diminish the sunshine surrounding us anymore. Slowly, we were beginning to heal.

Then Éomer spoke again, "Although I would like to remain in your company and I am loath to leave because you are my brother and my friend, I now must depart for a while to my own realm. As in Gondor, there is much to heal and set in order in Rohan. But I promise, I will return soon."

Aragorn clasped Éomer's arms in a friendly gesture. "That is what I would indeed ask of you, my friend. Soon the day shall come that all my endeavours shall be crowned with happiness, and I would that all my friends and brethren share this day with me."

"Then so it shall be, Aragorn. I will return to Minas Tirith in time."

Behind me Faramir was standing close to Éowyn, their gaze locked in sweet longing.

I heard Éowyn's voice drift towards me, and I was surprised how tender and soft her voice could be. "Now I must go back to my own country, too, for a little while," she told the Steward. "I have to look on my land once again before I turn my back on it forever. I have to help my brother in his labour for a time. But when one whom I long loved as a father is laid at last to rest, I will return."

"And never be parted from me again?" Faramir asked in a low, gentle voice.

"And never be parted from thee again," Éowyn replied.

**ooo**

Three days later the companies of the Riders of Rohan were ready to leave Minas Tirith.

I was back on Mithril, next to me rode Éowyn on her grey stallion. Behind us the sons of Elrond came on their great white destriers, and with them was Merry on his smaller white pony. Éomer was at the front of the host, his green cloak billowing in the strong southern breeze, Hiswa dancing with eagerness to be off and running.

At last Frohwein sounded the great horn of Rohan and we moved off, riding towards the Forannest, the northern gate of the Rammas Echor.

Although it was impossible to tell from way down here, I am sure that on the seventh circle of Minas Tirith someone was standing at the embrasure and watched us leave, with love and longing in his heart.

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N:**

As I don't think that the exact wording of the Oath of Eorl would have been repeated for this ceremony, I made up an oath of my own, combining an early Anglo-Saxon Oath of Fealty with an Oath that Robert the Bruce swore to King Edward of England and some of my own ideas.

The ceremony as I describe it is based on the ceremonies of homage and the swearing of fealty during the middle ages, i.e. the hand holding and mouth kissing is historically accurate.


	49. Dances with Horses

**49. Dances with Horses**

It was good to be back on Mithril's back. It was good to be on the road again! When I passed through the Forannest, excitement swept through me. A feeling of freedom and exhilaration was in my heart as we left the bare, desolate fields of the Pelennor behind us and rode on the Great West Road into Anórien.

Anórien, or Sunlending as it was called in Rohirric, was a stretch of fertile farmlands between the wetlands of the Mouths of the Entwash and the Ered Nimrais. It was approximately fifty miles wide and stretched some two hundred miles from the Anduin in the east to Mering Stream in the west.

It was a beautiful country to ride through. The road was well-maintained and level. It kept just shy of the foothills of the Ered Nimrais, leading due westwards some fifteen to twenty miles north of the mountain range. Thus you had the most wonderful view of the jagged slopes and the white peaks of the Ered Nimrais, the forests of oaks and beeches at their feet to one side, and the wide green fields of corn, wheat and barley to the other side.

The first day we passed Amon Dîn and made camp within sight of Druadan Forest, a great stretch of wild woodlands north-west of Minas Tirith. It is a dark forest of fir trees mingled with oaks and beeches. This is the forest where the tribes of the Wild Men of the Woods or Woses dwell, the tribes which aided the forces of the Rohirrim on their way to Minas Tirith during the war. The next night we had to spend actually in Druadan Forest, or rather the outskirts of it. We lit many watch fires and stayed to the northern side of the road. The night passed uneventfully. No animal or wild man showed itself to any of the guards.

Nevertheless I was happy to move on in the morning.

On the third day of the journey we reached the beacon of Erelas, the fourth beacon tower between Minas Tirith and Rohan. These beacon towers are round towers that have been built on the summits of the foothills of the Ered Nimrais to pass on messages and alarms with signal fires. There were altogether seven of these towers between Minas Tirith and the border to Rohan, spaced at regular intervals of about thirty miles. On the western banks of Mering Stream a base of Rohirric courier riders was situated. Any message that was flashed from beacon tower to beacon tower would be carried from there to Edoras on horseback. The courier riders were one of the three elite forces of the Riders, I was informed, the other two being the border guard and the Royal guard. And only they were allowed to ride horses of Mearan ancestry. They needed them, too: we needed four days to travel from Mering Stream to Edoras. The courier riders could – and in time of need _had_ to – cover the same distance in two days.

The fourth day of our journey took us halfway between the beacon tower of Minrimmon and Calenhad. On the fifth day we reached the great oak woods of Firien Forest. The horses were getting restless. Perhaps they could already smell the grassy plains of Rohan. The hunters killed a wild sow and her piglets. The meat was roasted on the open fire. There was only bread to go with the roast, but it still tasted great. Éowyn was sitting in silence, staring into the red and golden flames of the fire, lost in thought. I sat next to her, my legs crossed, my chin cupped in my hands, watching the fire just as she was, lost in some dreams of my own.

I started when I was unexpectedly addressed in a dark, mellow voice. Éomer had returned from his round of visiting the watch fires of the different companies. He did that every night, talking to the officers and to the common soldiers as well. "Tomorrow we will reach Rohan," he was telling me. "I'm sorry, did I scare you?"

I smiled up at him and shook my head. "No, I just did not hear you coming. I guess I have been dreaming the time away."

Éomer smiled back at me, a swift smile. "There's nothing wrong with having a dream or two." In a graceful movement he sat down next to me. "Will you tell me what it was that you've been dreaming of?"

I had been thinking about what Éomer would look like naked. "Nothing special. Just… thinking… dreaming…" I felt heat rise to my cheeks. I hoped that I was not actually blushing. An amber gleam lit up in Éomer's eyes. I guess I was blushing.

"Tell me about Rohan, please." A distraction.

"What do you want to know?" Éomer asked. He looked a little tired but content. He was obviously looking forward to returning to his home.

"Everything… I don't know. What does it mean to be Rohirrim?"

He laughed softly. "You do ask the most difficult questions, my lady. We call ourselves Eorlingas, the sons of Eorl. Rohan has been a kingdom of its own for a little over five hundred years. Before Eorl the Young won the Great Battle of the Fields of the Celebrant, Rohan was called Calenardhon and was only a province of the realm of Gondor. In reward for the victory at the Celebrant, Cirion of Gondor enfeoffed Eorl with the lands we now call Rohan. Eorl swore eternal fealty to Gondor and became the first King of Rohan.

Now Rohan has five provinces. The Eastfold, through which we will pass tomorrow, the Westfold, where Edoras lies, East Emnet and West Emnet and the Wold. Our largest city is Edoras, but around the keeps in the mountains some towns have grown, which have become quite prosperous. The wide plains of the Mark are only sparsely populated, there are quite a number of small villages scattered throughout the plains, but mainly the plains belong to the horses and the wild black cattle of the Emnet. In the hills of the Wold people live in isolated farms. They breed sheep there rather than cattle or horses. Rohan is a harsh land, wide and lonely."

"But you love it."

He smiled. "Yes. With all my heart. It is my home."

"Tell me about the horses," I asked him. "Are all of them wild? Or do you breed them? I noticed that only very few are actually white or grey like Mithril or Hiswa. Most horses among the companies seem to be more or less brown or perhaps dun."

Éomer's eyes lit up. It was obvious that he loved talking about horses.

I was surprised when he told me that actually only the Mearas were truly wild horses. The dun coloured horses were the ordinary horses of the Riddermark, which were kept in large herds in East and West Emnet and bred for use as war or work horses. Only the highest lords and the best warriors of the Eorlingas were permitted to raise a trueblooded Meara; in fact only those nobles who could claim kinship with the line of kings. Of the three elite forces of the Riders, only the Royal Guard rode trueblooded Mearas; the border guard as well as the courier riders had to make do with the not quite as noble half-breeds of Mearan ancestry. But even those halfbreeds were still far beyond the level of excellence found among the still swift-footed and hardy dun horses of the steppes of Rohan, and were a breed apart, showing the white and grey colours of true Mearas, if not their full height and power. Indeed, the Royal Guard and their Mearas were considered to be the most deadly cavalry troop in all of Middle-earth, even beyond the skills of the Variags of Khand. In the war each company of the Rohirrim fighters had been led by a captain on a Meara.

The white and grey Mearas, which were said to have been brought from Aman by Oromë himself, could not be bred like just any other horses. They lived in small wild herds which were carefully watched by the Rohirrim to prevent them from mingling their blood with lesser horses. Only the most promising foals were taken from their mothers right after their birth and nurtured by their future rider like a human baby. The relationship between a horse with Mearan ancestry and its rider was said to be closer than the relationship between husband and wife. Indeed, many riders of the border guard or the courier riders never married at all, but lived only with their horse and their company.

Mithril had been Éowyn's horse. Only now did I begin to understand just what an honour had been bestowed upon me when Mithril had been given to me to carry that message to Prince Imrahil. Éowyn had never explained that to me in so many words.

Éowyn herself was now riding the Meara of her dead cousin, Théodred. It was a steel grey stallion called Brego. Sometimes a Meara would not accept a new rider when the old one had died and it had to be set free or killed. But Brego had carried Éowyn in the Battle of the Pelennor. Although Éowyn had told me that he still missed his old rider, he seemed to be quite content with his new mistress.

"But we also breed dogs," Éomer added, interrupting my musings.

"Those huge grey dogs you had with you in the hall of Meduseld?" I asked Éowyn.

She nodded. "Yes, they are bred for running with the horses. They are used to watch the herds. We call them windspiele, or wind hounds. My Gwirith will have pups soon. I will let you have one if you want to. But I warn you, they are a lot of work to train well."

"Thank you. I think I would like that. But I don't have a lot of experience with dogs. At home we had cats," I answered. I had liked those dogs.

Éowyn shrugged. "We have cats, too. I like one on my lap when it's cold outside. But you can't take them riding. Although my brother tried that when he was a boy. I think he actually prefers cats to dogs."

Éomer raised his eyebrows and objected. "I like the dogs just fine, sis. And it was an interesting experiment."

Éowyn grinned. "This 'scientific' experiment did not work very well. The cat jumped from the back of the horse in a mighty leap. The horse jumped even higher. Éomer went flying, and the cat never allowed Éomer to touch it again."

"I was only ten. I thought it might look good. A white horse with a black cat on its back."

Brother and sister smiled at one another.

Although Éomer and Éowyn were so different in character and appearance, there was no mistaking the depth of affection between them. Family can be a wonderful thing. For the first time in weeks I thought about my own family back on earth. My eccentric mother. My conservative step-father. I had never known my real father. I guess my mother had not been sure about his identity. I had been so utterly embarrassed when she had explained this delicate difficulty to me that I had never asked about my parentage again.

I was gone for nine months now. I hoped that my mother and my step-father were moving on with their lives by now, that they were not grieving too much over my disappearance.

I was pretty sure that they would. My mother had her strange friends and her exotic hobbies to occupy her. My step-father had his work and his books. And they did have each other. They would be alright.

"Now, could my dear brother explain to you what it means to be Rohirrim?" Éowyn asked me. Éomer winked at me. He would not be angry if I told the truth.

Laughing I shook my head. "It answered some questions, yes. But not really. I think I have only more questions than before."

"I will show you every one of our five provinces. We will ride with the herds and climb the Ered Nimrais. We will visit the Wold and the keeps of the Eastfold and the Westfold. We will hunt with our wind hounds and I will sing you our songs. Then you will know what it means to be Rohirrim," Éomer promised. His gleaming, dark eyes and his deep voice had an almost hypnotic quality to them.

My heart was beating like a drum, and I felt as if liquid fire was flowing through my veins when I finally answered, "I would love that, my lord Éomer."

He smiled at me then, a soft, touching smile that was only meant for me. "My lady Lothíriel."

**ooo**

At noon the next day we reached the Ford of Rohan across Mering Stream. Mering Stream is not a great river, but a small, clear mountains stream flowing down from the Ered Nimrais through the Fenmarch until it joins the Entwash some sixty or seventy miles to the north-east of its spring up in the rocks of the White Mountains.

The Ford was easy to cross. The riverbed had been filled up with gravel so that the water was not even knee-high in the ford. There were huge smiles on the faces of Éomer and Éowyn as we crossed the ford, and the faces of the riders of the Rohirrim mirrored their happiness exactly. Everyone was happy to come home after so many weeks on the road, in the war, in a foreign, if friendly, country, and on the road again.

Crossing the border into Rohan, the landscape changed. The rich fields of Anórien gave way to the fertile plains of the Fenmarch. Fields and orchards now appeared in fenced circles around small villages of twenty of thirty thatched houses. Two companies parted from the main host that day, one rode away to the north, to the villages of the Fenmarch, the other made towards the hills and the mountain keeps of the Eastfold. The other companies would ride with us to Edoras and then go on to their own homes.

It was another beautiful day in May. Although the weather was not as warm as it had been in Minas Tirith and the soft winds blowing to us across the plains were cool, there was hardly any cloud in the sky. The sun was bright and the sky was blue, and the happiness of homecoming lifted the hearts.

We stopped only when the sun was already setting at the edge of the Ered Nimrais. The western sky and the snow of the glaciers shimmered in brilliant hues of violet, red and fiery gold. A soft wind blew towards us from the plains of the Fenmarch, carrying the fragrance of earth and grass and horse. The first stars of the night were glittering in the darkening eastern sky.

I felt light of heart and carefree as I dismounted and carefully cleaned Mithril's hooves and brushed her soft coat until it gleamed like the precious metal she was named for. Éowyn who was a lot faster in her care of Brego was watching me with a smile on her face. "We'll make a horse-woman of you yet, Lothíriel. And Mithril really adores you."

"I adore her, too," I whispered and snorted softly at the horse, whereupon Mithril blew her warm, humid horse's breath at my neck. I giggled and patted her. "That's it for tonight. Go and find some nice grass for supper." Mithril flicked her ears, then promptly turned around and walked off towards Brego, who was already grazing.

Éowyn stood motionlessly, watching the horses. For riding she wore her long hair braided tightly. Nevertheless, some tendrils had worked free and drifted now around her face. Her profile was outlined by the setting sun. The last rays of sunlight made her hair gleam like gold. She was very beautiful, the way she stood there and looked at the horses. Tall and slender, dressed in the leather uniform of the riders, sword and dagger at her hip, her face clear and her eyes like grey stars. She was a heroine who would inspire many myths and legends, of that there was no doubt. And she was my friend.

I hesitated to approach her and disturb her. But after last night's conversation, there was something that I wanted to say to her. When she turned away from the horses, I walked up to her. "Éowyn, I did not really understand what it meant that you allowed me to ride Mithril. I want to thank you for this honour," I said timidly.

"As you brought Mithril back in one piece, that's alright," she answered lightly. But a softness to her smile told me louder than words that she appreciated my gratitude.

"It's good to be home again," Éowyn said with a sigh. "Let's go to the fire and have some dinner, before the men and that hobbit have eaten everything."

She looked up at the sky for a moment. As we had spoken, the bright blue above us had darkened to a deep, inky blue sparkling with myriads of silver stars. Éowyn inhaled deeply. "Oh, yes, it's good to be back. Come, Lothíriel, this will be a wonderful night. Perhaps I can persuade Éomer to dance for us."

"Dance?" I asked, bewildered. Not that I did not appreciate his prowess as a dancer, but this sounded strange.

"A horse dance," Éowyn explained.

This did not make any more sense to me.

"He's one of the best. I remember when I was a child, my father said once that if he did not know it better, he would say that it was a horse who had fathered Éomer, and not a man at all.

It's part of the training of the horses, but it's more than that. It's beautiful. And it requires great skill." She laughed at my uncomprehending look. "Wait and see, Lothíriel. Wait and see. I promise that you will know more about what it means to be Rohirrim afterwards."

Tonight Merry had cooked a great pot of stew. When Éowyn and I took our places around the fire, there was indeed not a large amount of the stew left anymore. Elladan and Elrohir were just going for seconds and Merry was probably spooning up his fourth helping. Éomer's squire, Frohwein, served us.

As the last light of the sun faded behind the white peaks of the Ered Nimrais, we enjoyed the rich, hot stew and a beaker of dark beer from a small barrel that had been purchased at the base of the courier riders at Mering Stream. Éomer sat with Elrond's sons on the other side of the fire, but now and again he would raise his head and look at me, his dark eyes gleaming. Every time he did this, my heart thumped heavily in my chest and my stomach tightened.

_Gods, how I wished to be alone with him and no concerns of realms, politics and marriages to be in our way!_

"Would you dance for us, brother?" Éowyn's voice penetrated my fantasies. "It's a beautiful night, and we have returned home victorious. It would be fitting, surely."

Then she winked at me and continued, "And Lothíriel has never seen anything like a Rohirric horse dance before. It would help her understand our ways."

Again those intense eyes sought mine. My heartbeat quickened. He seemed to notice what his look could do to me because a slight smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

"Very well, I will do it," he agreed. "Frohwein, would you get Hiswa? Aelfriv, Éowyn, will you take the drums?"

Frohwein bowed and went off to the horses. Aelfriv was already on his feet and disappeared into the darkness, only to return with two sets of joined lap drums, one a little larger than the other. He gave one set to Éowyn, the other he kept himself. Elladan and Elrohir rose to their feet and came over to our side of the fire, so that we sat in half a circle looking towards the wide plains of the Fenmarch.

Éowyn and Aelfriv started beating the drums. They began in a low irregular beat that sounded like an approaching herd of horses, perhaps. The beats increased in volume and in speed, only to slow down and become gentle again. Then they joined in a slow, regular rhythm.

Suddenly Éomer rode out of the darkness on the other side of the fire. There was no saddle and no reins. There was only the grey stallion and his rider.

There he halted.

The drums stopped for a moment.

Then Éowyn and Aelfriv started beating the drums again, in a complicated, irregular beat that was just off the rhythm of the heart. It was a tense and strangely exciting rhythm, reminding me of the sound of hooves on the plains or on the road.

Hiswa started moving in time to the rhythm. The great horse walked on the spot to the beat of the drums. Swaying from hind legs to fore legs, from the left to the right, in smooth, gliding movements, reacting to unnoticeable directions Éomer gave to his horse. In tune to the rhythm of the drum, the horse danced, increasing the speed of its movements or slowing down, as the drums rolled through the night.

Suddenly Éowyn started singing in Rohirric to the sound of the drums. It was a strangely disharmonic song, lilting, but melancholy, a song of horses and riders and of wind on the plains. To her song, Hiswa rose on his hind legs, and balancing on his hind legs he turned around to the rhythm of the song, lowering or striking with his front legs in tune with the melody. I could not have said where Éomer's body ended and where the horse began. Éomer was _one_ with his horse.

The flickering flames of the fire accentuated the beautiful lines of the Meara, the proud head, the long, sculpted neck, the gleaming coat on his sides, the strength and dexterity of his legs. The fire made the eyes of his rider gleam like dark jewels. Éomer was holding onto Hiswa only with his legs. I could not see how he was directing his horse at all. He was holding his arms freely to his sides, he did not use spoken commands, and yet Hiswa danced, and Éomer danced with him, swaying with the strength of his horse, to the deep, mesmerizing rolls of the drums.

When Éowyn ended her song and it was only the sound of the drums that gave the music to the dance, Hiswa dropped on all fours, taking up the rhythm of the drums again in complicated steps moving on the spot, swaying, gliding, dancing, as if he and his rider were made of liquid and not of muscles and bones.

With a last flourish the drums stopped.

Hiswa bent his neck in a deep, graceful bow. Éomer slid down from his back. In a long, loving caress he stroked Hiswa's neck in appreciation for his efforts. Then Éomer turned towards us. He smiled at me and bowed, too.

Suddenly many rough voices were raised in cheers and all around us the sounds of clapping disturbed the quiet of the night. I had been so immersed in the dance of horse and rider that I had not noticed that almost the entire host had drifted up to our fire, to watch their King dance with his horse.

The dance had been exhausting for horse and rider. A slight sheen of sweat covered Éomer's face, and Hiswa's coat gleamed wetly, too. Obviously a great deal of strength and control was needed for the delicate movements necessary for the dance. Frohwein walked up to Éomer and bowed to him, then led Hiswa away into the darkness to take care of the horse.

Éomer slumped down on the ground next to the fire and gratefully accepted a mug of beer from Aelfriv. He drained the beaker in one gulp. Aelfriv refilled Éomer's beaker, and then sat down again, a few feet away, ready to be at his lord's service when needed.

Éomer exhaled deeply, then dried his forehead on the sleeve of his shirt. "I haven't done that in a long time. I had forgotten how draining it is."

"It was beautiful," I said, awe in my voice.

Éomer smiled at me. His eyes were flecked with the amber of happiness and full of warmth.

"And do you understand now what it means to be Rohirrim?"

The drum beats still echoed in my veins, quickening and disturbing the pace of my heart.

My stomach did a flip, and for a moment my breath caught in the fading vision of gleaming silvery-grey strength moving so smoothly, so delicately to song and drums.

My voice sounded breathless and trembling when I finally answered.

"A little. More than before."

And I did.

**ooo**

To be Rohirrim means freedom.

To be Rohirrim means faithfulness.

To be Rohirrim means friendship of horse and of rider.

Before the kingdom of Rohan was established, and its people were called Rohirrim, or Eorlingas, as they call themselves, the people of the Mark had another name. Their name of old is "Éothéod". "Éothéod" means horse-folk.

But it can also be translated as "Dances with horses".

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N:** The horse dance is an ancient ritual among the nomads and horse-lords of northern Africa, the Bedouins. They have a long history of breeding horses and excellent horsemanship. They traditionally care deeply about their horses and treat them almost like members of their family. I thought the horse dance would fit in well with the Rohirrim and illustrate their culture and their relationship with their horses in an interesting way. 

The literal translation of "Éothéod" however is only "horse-folk"; I humbly beg you to grant me some poetic license there.

**ooo**

In the books, Éowyn rode a horse called "Windfola" to the battle of the Pelennor. As I added so much detail to the horse culture of the Rohirrim, it seemed more fitting to me to have her ride a "royal" horse. Therefore I exchanged Windfola and Brego. I think Théodred would have liked Éowyn to have Brego.


	50. Let's Talk About Sex, Baby

**Warning: **This chapter covers certain sexual issues. If such issues offend you for religious/moral/whatever reasons, please just skip this chapter.

**A/N: '**Thing': not "a thing", but an ancient word for the gathering of Germanic or Anglo-Saxon tribes/peoples for counsel and trials. The pronunciation is very hard, I am told that in modern Icelandic it sounds almost like a "t".

* * *

**oooOooo **

**50. Let's Talk About Sex, Baby**

Three days later we reached Edoras.

At the crossroads before the gates of Edoras, the host of the Rohirrim was finally discharged.

Their colourful banners flying in the wind, the companies of the proud riders of Rohan dispersed. One company rode towards the Westfold and Adornond, two companies turned to West Emnet, two others to East Emnet, one company made for the far Wold. Only the companies of Edoras, Snowbourne Vale and Dunharrow rode into the city of Edoras.

The sons of Elrond veered away towards Lothlórien to meet the entourage of their sister. We would see them again in June, because it had been decided that we would return to Minas Tirith together with them and Arwen and her entourage.

Riding into Edoras and up the hill towards the Golden Hall of Meduseld felt like coming home. I realized that this was the first time I really returned to a place in Middle-earth. Although I had been to Tarnost twice and had stayed at Minas Tirith for two nights before I had set out for Cormallen, that was not the same. Perhaps it was simply the fact that I had stayed in Edoras a little longer. Probably it also had a lot to do with me being in love with Éomer and that I was good friends with Éowyn… but whatever the reason, seeing the silhouette of the city of Edoras rise up before me, the golden roof of Meduseld glinting in the sunlight, I felt this surge of happiness you get when you return home after a long holiday somewhere else. When you return, and everything is the way you left it, and everything is good and peaceful and welcoming you.

When we rode through the gates, we were welcomed by deafening cheers.

I had not been ready for another triumphant return. I should have been. The people at Edoras had been waiting even longer for the return of the victors of the War of the Rings than the inhabitants of Minas Tirith. But caught unawares like that, I felt completely overwhelmed.

As we made our way slowly up the hill to the Golden Hall, I was sure that every single inhabitant of Edoras had turned out and lined up at the sides of the street to welcome us.

Judging by the amount of flowers thrown before the hooves of our horses, there couldn't be a single blossom left in any garden in Edoras or in the near vicinity of the city. But after I had gotten over my initial shocked surprise at this noisy welcome, I did not feel as strange and self-conscious about the cheers and applause of the crowd as I had felt in Minas Tirith. I guess you can get used to just about anything. I only felt an enormous happiness at the knowledge that the war was really over, and that we were back here in Edoras in one piece.

**ooo**

We dismounted on the terrace in front of the palace. Grooms took over the horses from us.

The high doors of the hall were opened and a number of large greyhounds charged up to Éowyn and Éomer, yipping and whining and jumping and wagging their tails, the image of houndish joy. Then brother and sister took each other's hands and entered the hall together.

Merry and I walked behind them. I could see the glitter of tears in the hobbit's eyes.

I suddenly realized that this was an extraordinary homecoming for Éomer and Éowyn. Sorrowful, and deeply significant for their future lives.

When they had left Edoras for the war, they had been nephew and niece to the king. Now Éomer would be king and Éowyn would return to Edoras as her home only one more time, when Théoden would be laid to rest in one of the green mounds before the city's gates some time after Aragorn's marriage this summer. Their world and their future had changed during the war, taking them where they had never expected to go.

I reached out for Merry, wanting to comfort the hobbit. It was obvious that the hobbit had liked the old king very much. Edoras and Meduseld had to remind him of Théoden, and how he had made Merry a squire of Rohan only a few months ago.

"You never met the old king, didn't you, Lothy?"

I shook my head. "No, I was too sick when they brought me here, and when I was better, he had already left for the battle at Helm's Deep, and when you returned to Edoras again, I had already gone away with the Grey Company. You liked him very much, didn't you?"

Merry sighed. "Yes, I did. He was a real gentleman. He was how a king should be. Patient and wise and strong. A real gentleman. And for a time he was almost like a father to me."

His grief was still acute and obviously painful. I knew how he felt. It takes time to live with loss. More than anything else, it takes time. Some wounds not even time can heal, but the pain fades in time. I knew that one day I would be able to look back with only a bittersweet ache in my heart, and not this sickening feeling of approaching an abyss of darkness and tears. I knew that I was already healing, although I did not now want to look back quite yet. I hoped that this would be true for Merry, too. I thought it would be. And for Pippin, and for Sam.

I knew it would not be true for Frodo.

**ooo**

In the hall we were offered a ceremonial cup of welcome filled with mead. Mead is honey-wine. I had never had it before. It is an acquired taste. But when you have acquired the taste, it is really good.

Éowyn was on the floor, fussing with one of the grey dogs. She looked up at me and laughed at the consternation on my face. "This is my Gwiri. She will have her pups before we leave for the wedding. Look at how fat she's become!" She was stroking the dog lovingly.

The dog had an undeniably round belly. I hunkered down next to Éowyn.

"What do I do?" I asked, not wanting to get bitten.

"Let her smell your hand along with mine," Éowyn said. "That way she will know that you are a friend. When she accepts you, scratch her behind her ears. She likes that."

Together we held out our hands to Gwiri. Gwiri snorted and then licked my fingers. Dogs have very soft, very wet tongues, not like cats. I grinned at the dog, and carefully proceeded to scratch Gwiri behind the ears. The dog lolled its tongue and turned on its back, showing up its distended belly, the nipples that would suckle her young already swollen. Éowyn laughed happily and proceeded to stroke Gwiri's belly to the delight of the dog.

Éomer chuckled. "Éowyn's mad about that dog, Lothy. But if she really offers you a pup, you should take it. Gwiri is the best dog we ever had, and I think Faro is the sire of this one's litter, and he was the strongest and fastest dog we ever had."

"What's happened to him?" I asked. And regretted the question instantly.

"He was with us in the war," Éomer said, his eyes filled with sadness. "He saved me from a mountain troll. He was trampled to mush in the process."

Éomer looked away quickly. I realized that he grieved for his valiant dog. My heart tightened with a feeling of love for him.

**ooo**

Éomer had promised to show all of Rohan to me.

But for the time being, he could not fulfil this promise. The day after he had returned to Edoras, he was swamped with the political problems that had accumulated during the last months of war and unrest. In other words, he spent his days in the Hall of Meduseld with councillors and complainants and scribes and judges and, you name it.

A Thing, a gathering of the lords and captains of all provinces and counties, was called and had to be prepared. The date for it was set for the 30th of May. We had arrived in Edoras at the 16th of May. Arwen and her escort were expected in Edoras on the 14th of June. It was planned to join her and her entourage and ride together to Minas Tirith, leaving Edoras on the 16th of June.

There was simply not enough time for anything.

Although by now I really loved riding, and I found that I really preferred riding to cars and trains and planes with their noise and the pollution, there is one thing about modern transportation that horses lack: _speed._

We had needed nine days from Minas Tirith to Edoras. With an entourage – carriages and servants and guards – we would need fifteen days for the same distance. All this time lost on the road coming and going cut short the time Éomer could spend with me. Therefore any thought of a journey through the five provinces in order to show me the beauty of Rohan had to be postponed.

I did not mind too much. I was slowly beginning to believe that perhaps, somehow, sometime, things would work out, my origins and missing virginity notwithstanding. Someday Éomer would show me Rohan. Every nook and cranny.

For the time being, I saw him every morning at breakfast, in the evening at dinner and sometimes in between for a ride or a walk.

And it was not as if I was not kept busy. Éowyn had taken over my "education". There was still a lot that I had to learn about horses and riding. There was more that I had to learn about dogs. There was _still more_ I had to learn about being a shield-maiden of Rohan. Or would that be shield-wife, if everything worked out fine?

Anyway, she brooked no objections on my part but simply made me learn how to fight: Rohirric-style. If you have a sword in your hand, and someone starts whacking at you, you are sort of forced to try and fight back. I did not enjoy it. I was not good at it.

Éowyn did enjoy herself immensely. Of course it helped that she was a natural with a sword and many years of training. Shield-maiden is _not_ an honorary title.

I was in no way a natural with a sword.

**ooo**

A few days after our arrival in Edoras, Éowyn and I were sitting in front of the fireplace in the library. Even in the midst of summer it gets quite chilly in Edoras because of the mountains channelling the winds right towards the city. So we had a nice, big log fire going. Éomer had already gone to bed after a long day spent with his councillors in preparation of the Thing. But although I was hurting all over after another session with Éowyn, we were not yet tired enough to call it a day. So we sat in front of the fireplace, curled up in big easy chairs with warm woollen blankets and a beaker of mead each.

The mead was probably a mistake.

It was perfectly natural to want to talk about the men we were in love with. It was even more natural to talk about the man you were going to marry. Éowyn had told me for the seventh time exactly how Faramir had proposed to her, with even more details about his eyes and his smile. I had made the appropriate appreciative noises and sighed a little, thinking of how it would be if – when? – Éomer…

"What did you just say?" I started from my dreams. Éowyn had asked me a question.

She raised a golden eyebrow at me and grinned. "You told me that you would explain it to me."

"I would explain what to you?" _What was she talking about?_

"The night of the coronation," Éowyn expounded. "You said, I quote 'you are my dearest friend, and I will do everything for you, but I will not tell you about sex _now_'. I have waited weeks and weeks now. Éomer is safely asleep. We are warm and comfortable and there's a jug with mead on that table that has our names on it. How about you talk to me about sex **now**?" She blinked at me, affecting a pout. She failed at it miserably. She is not that kind of woman. Finally she tried for a grin that was the kind of grin that tries to look innocent but is really wicked. That worked just fine. "Please?"

I sighed. She **was** my friend. I should have said 'never', not 'not now'.

Damn it.

Did I say that I'm no good at girl talk?

Did I mention that I bloody hate those embarrassing talks?

"Alright," I said finally. My heartbeat was already increasing its speed. My cheeks were growing hot in advance. I had not even thought about what to say, damn it all to hell. Such talk needed careful mental preparation. In advance. And I was supposed to be a mature and emancipated woman of the twenty-first century. I sighed. There was probably more than one reason why I felt so at home in the vaguely medieval society of Middle-earth.

"What do you want to know?" I asked feebly.

She glared at me. She was not going to make this easy on me.

I sighed again. "You did say you know how it works technically, didn't you? That the man puts his…" _Why is it so hard to even name this appendage without blushing?_

"…that the man puts his penis into your vagina and…"

"Yes, I know how copulation works. I breed dogs and horses!" Éowyn rolled her eyes at me. "I have even some experience as a midwife. What I want to know is how it _feels_. Does it really hurt so much? How often do you have to do it to get pregnant? I mean, I know how it works for horses, and dogs, but are we the same? The way some of the older women talk about it, it sounds so gross. But the way you talked about… ahem… you talked as if it was different, as if it was wonderful, as if it was some kind of magic… as if it was strong enough even to thwart the power of the Enemy…And why do I feel as if I was longing to do it, whenever I am close to Faramir?"

_Copulation…I breed dogs and horses…_

_Oh, Gods, what have I done to offend you?_

"Sex" – _a much nicer word than copulation – _"Sex," I repeated. "For the first time, sex tends to hurt. If you are a virgin there's this little piece of skin the man has to tear to get into you. You also might be tense, because you are nervous. And then it does hurt a bit to have him pushing in, especially if you are not ready and the man is not very skilful."

I knew that one from experience. It had not been a pleasant experience. "But if the man knows what to do, and he makes you ready, it's the most wonderful thing in the world."

Éowyn stared at me blankly. I gulped. Perhaps I should try the easy questions first. "Well, you know that there are days that are… especially good for conceiving each month, do you?" I glanced at her. She nodded. I went on. "If you do it at that time, just once may be enough to get you pregnant. If you are lucky, or unlucky, depending on your wish for a child… even at other times once will be enough. The first time might even be enough. I think, biologically speaking, the longing is in us to have children. But you know, we don't only sleep with a man to get pregnant. It's a way to celebrate love. To worship one another. Sex should not be only sex. Though it can be nice even then. But it's more. It's a way of sharing love and desire in the most divine way."

My words echoed in my ears. _Had I just sounded like my mother when she had given me THAT talk?_

Éowyn continued to stare at me. I was gratified to see red spots glowing prettily on her high cheekbones. _Good_. Now I was not the only one in this room who felt utterly embarrassed.

"How can I make it wonderful?" Éowyn asked, ever practical.

I pursed my lips. How can you make a first time wonderful? Now, if I knew how many virgins Faramir had already deflowered… Boromir had been a wonder. But I rather thought that Faramir would not have been, well, as easygoing about gathering experience in that particular matter as his older brother obviously had been.

"It will help if you know what you like," I said finally. For a moment I wondered how I even knew the designations of penis, vagina and orgasm in Westron. Sometimes Gandalf's spells worked a little too well.

"If I know that I like what?" Éowyn asked, uncomprehendingly.

"Well, how you like to be touched, and where, and – did you ever have an orgasm?" The question was out before I had time to think about it. If I had had the time to think about it, I think I would have finally managed to simply vanish into thin air.

Éowyn's face blushed harder. She _had_ heard of orgasm. I was relieved. I don't think I would have wanted to explain that one. I was also sure that I did not want to know where she had heard about what orgasm is.

"No, of course not," Éowyn answered, for once with the kind of breathless voice that I knew from myself, when I was desperately looking for a mouse hole to disappear into.

"**I** am a virgin." Éowyn said pointedly.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

"You don't need a man for orgasm," I said bluntly. _Either get it over with or never speak of it at all._

"I don't?" Éowyn's eyes grew round with astonishment.

"No. You can do that for yourself. Though it is **much** nicer with a man and kissing and soft touches all over your body. But you don't need a man to reach orgasm."

"How… how does it work?" Éowyn asked, swallowing hard.

I inhaled deeply, then let go of my breath again. Tonight I had to be doing penance for a lot of sins. Probably I would wake with a halo floating above my head in the morning.

"There's a spot at… ahem… at the top of your vagina, there's a little knob, it's called clitoris, and that is for women the place of sexual pleasure, like the penis for the men," I explained and felt the urgent need to gasp for breath.

"This thing is real?" Éowyn stared at me.

I exhaled with relief. She had heard of that, too. Yippee skippee. Thank God for small mercies! "Ahem… yes, it's real. Very…real. And if you are in bed and take your time… ahem…getting to know your body… down there, ahem… like stroking and massaging yourself, then you should… ahem… be able to reach orgasm. Without a man."

"And that will help with Faramir how?"

Please, let this evening be over! I inhaled. I exhaled. "I think that if you know what orgasm can feel like, you won't be as frightened of… things… be as tense when it's time for… the first time, as you might be otherwise. And if you know what feels good to you, you can… sort of show it to Faramir, should he be… nervous about… things, too."

"Oh," Éowyn said.

I could watch her thinking this through. She was rubbing her upper lip against her lower lip thoughtfully.

"I don't know how much experience Faramir has," she finally commented. "And I can hardly ask him. Perhaps I should try…"

"Éowyn, you've near killed me with embarrassment over this talk. Don't even go there. I don't want to know. I gave you the best advice I can come up with. Please, leave it at that. Or I might have a heart attack and die on the spot." Then one last thought occurred to me. "Um… and if it's not good the first few times, don't worry. That's entirely normal. Even with the most wonderful man in the world. You just have to keep trying. A most noble endeavour. Can keep you happy and busy for years."

Then I could not bear it any longer. I pulled the blanket up over my head and dissolved into hysterical giggles.

**ooo**

It was not the next day. We had stayed up too late for any experiments. When I had recovered from Éowyn's curiosity, our talk had changed to more ordinary topics. Dogs, horses, Arwen, marriage, betrothal, Faramir, Éomer, Faramir… you get the drift.

But the morning after that day, Éowyn looked extraordinarily fresh and relaxed at breakfast. She was bright eyed and much more cheerful than she had been since we left Minas Tirith. She grinned at me wickedly. "You know, Lothy, you give rather good advice."

I thought I might have that heart attack then and there. I blushed furiously. My cheeks seemed to be on fire, so hot did they feel. I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me.

Éomer turned to me and asked, his voice filled with curiosity. "What was this advice about? Perhaps I need a bit of good advice, too!"

Éowyn and I did not stop laughing for an hour.

**oooOooo**

* * *

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JunoMagic


	51. Return to Minas Tirith

**51. Return to Minas Tirith**

The few weeks at Edoras passed much too quickly. If you are happy and busy, time just flies by. At the beginning of June, summer came to Rohan. The weather turned hot, and the wide, green plains acquired a golden hue as the first tall grasses ripened and dried.

Gwirith had her pups. No problems, but a wakeful night. It was not a sight for a weak stomach. All that blood and slime. Made me think twice about wanting a baby. But the puppies turned out to be absolutely gorgeous: six little, grey fuzz balls, two of them male and four female. I was crazy enough to accept Éowyn's gift of one of them. I dubbed him Gizmo for the time being. I could not even pronounce the fancy name he was born with due to his blood-lines, which go back to Eorl's dogs or even further back, I think. It was decided that Gizmo would stay with his mother and his brother and sisters for the moment. But Éomer explained to me that if I wanted a real Rohirric dog of my own, who obeyed my every word and thought, I would have to start training him personally in a few weeks. Éowyn promised to help me there. And Éomer, too. He got the other male pup, as he lost his old dog in the war. Éomer did not yet decide on a final name for his new dog either. In fact it was largely on Éomer's account that I did not dare to give a real name to little Gizmo. Éomer told me in great detail and in a solemn voice about how you ought to wait with naming animals until you knew _who_ they really were – with their personality and their strengths. When in Rome, do as the Romans do, the saying goes, so I nodded my head and stuck with cuddling the little fuzz ball in silence, only calling it "Gizmo" when no one was within earshot.

It occurred to me then that Rohirrim are really difficult when it comes to naming their animals. They are perfectly content with one single name for a human being, but their animals have at least three.

One for the lineage, one to impress other people and one you really use. And perhaps a fourth, really stupid name that you will use only if you are alone with you horse, your dog (or your wife, probably).

I have to admit that I had started calling my beautiful, friendly Mithril "Mimi" most of the time. That is, if Éowyn was not in earshot – because if she heard her proud Meara called "Mimi", I'd be skewered on the spot, I guess.

******ooo**

Early in the morning of – according to Gondorian reckoning – June 14th, I think, a company of many horses and carriages crossed the Snowbourn River, moving slowly towards Edoras.

It was, of course, the wedding company travelling to Minas Tirith from Lórien.

At the front of the train, Elladan and Elrohir rode on their great white destriers, carrying the silver banner of Imladris. Behind them followed the Lady Galadriel and the Lord Celeborn, their hair flowing down to the backs of their white steeds like silken cloaks of gold and silver. For a dizzying moment I was not able to tell what was hair and what was finely woven gown. They were crowned with circlets of gold set with white jewels, riding as the Lords of Lothlórien for the first time in centuries.

With them rode many of the fair folk of Imladris and the Golden Wood, elves and elven women, cloaked in grey and wearing elvish jewels braided in their beautiful hair. They were not accompanied by singing harp-players, however, and in spite of how some story-tellers would have it, there were no lilies and roses springing up where the hooves of their horses or their feet touched the ground. Nevertheless, it is true that the bright and clear sound of the elvish voices sounded almost like music and was heard from afar. And it did seem as if a special, almost heavenly light lay on all of their faces and made the company stand out in an unearthly glow.

Master Elrond, astride a white horse that was the spitting image of his sons' great mounts, rode at the back of the train; and with him rode Lady Arwen on a smaller horse, a gentle, grey mare with a long white mane and a soft swishing tail.

I was looking forward to meeting Arwen again. I had liked her very much during the short days I had spent in Rivendell, once I had gotten over my shyness towards the Firstborn. And I knew from many moments of catching him lost in thoughts and dreamy-eyed at Cormallen, just how happy Aragorn was about his upcoming wedding. He had to wait many lonely years for this dream to come true.

So I stood on the terrace in front of the Golden Hall next to Éowyn and watched impatiently as the company rode up to the fountain below the palace, where servants already waited to take over the horses and lead the guests to the best rooms Meduseld had to offer.

As I had expected,, Arwen's face was wreathed in happiness. A smile was on her lips. A smile was in her eyes. But then I felt myself frowning. Something was _off_ about the way she smiled. With a start I realized that there was an underlying sense of tension in the way she held herself in the saddle.

I looked at Elrond. Suddenly it was easy to identify at least one reason for Arwen's tension.

Even I could see that it was an effort for her father to smile whenever she looked at him. Elrond's eyes were full of shadows, and his face was filled with weariness and ill-concealed grief.

I quickly looked away.

Sometimes life is beyond cruel.

Instead I tried to concentrate on the air, filled as it was with the fragrance of summer, sunshine and hay, and colourful butterflies were fluttering among the blossoms of the potted flowers set about the terrace. The weather-wise Rohirrim had told me that the weather would stay fine and hot for weeks to come, almost too fine where the farmers were concerned. But that way travelling back to Minas Tirith would be a lark, and Arwen's wedding really deserved the best weather this summer had to offer. It was a high honour for me to stand here on the terrace with Éomer and Éowyn, healthy and happy in pretty leggings and an ornate tunic to greet these high guests.

But I could not quite manage to banish the sudden sadness that squeezed my heart.

On the terrace down below the elves dismounted. The grooms were bowing almost down to their toes before they dared to take the reins of the horses and lead them away to take care of them. This scene was so funny to observe that the sudden twinge of sorrow, I had experienced a moment ago, diminished. How intimidated the servants were! Were they really that afraid of elvish magicks? But as I recalled clearly just how overwhelmed I had been in the presence of the Firstborn at Rivendell at first, I was able to keep my grin in check.

Then the company approached us, more gliding then climbing up the stairs. Being the complete elves, naturally. Elves are so damn _elvish_, if you know what I mean.

They walked up to us. I bowed deeply. Éowyn bowed deeply. Éomer bowed deeply.

They bowed back to us. Arwen curtsied. I was instantly glad that Rohirrim gals may wear trousers. I would tie my legs into a knot and fall right down before the Lady Galadriel's feet should I attempt a curtsy the way Arwen kept pulling them off.

"Welcome to Rohan, welcome to Edoras," Éomer told the elvish delegation. I sighed as a shiver of delight ran down my back. I felt certain that with his deliciously dark voice Éomer could hold his own against the best elvish singer – if perhaps not against the strange old harper who had sung at Cormallen, I amended in my mind. And Éomer was also almost as graceful as an elf, I mused. He _looked_ stronger, though. His muscles were more pronounced. I thought that I rather preferred his powerful, muscular frame to the litheness of the elves. He seemed more real that way. Éomer made me feel fragile. That's a lovely feeling when you are a tall girl and normally quite curvy. How strange that here, in this world, I actually mourned the weight I had lost! And I had added only a little bit of weight since we came to Edoras because of Éowyn a.k.a. drill-sergeant Smith and her evil efforts. She was determined to get me to a level of skill that I would be able to save my life in close combat. I did not enjoy her efforts, though I _did_ appreciate them.

Éomer went on, rousing me from my daydreams, "Quarters have been prepared for all of you in the palace. My squire will show you to your rooms so that you can refresh yourselves from your travails. Later I would ask you to join me for a welcome dinner to celebrate the friendship between Rohan and the Eldar. My ladies, my lords, if you would like to come with me for a cup of welcome and to meet my sister and the Lady Lothíriel?"

The lords and ladies in question – Galadriel, Celeborn, the twins, Elrond, Arwen and a handful of dignitaries – gracefully inclined their heads and followed Éomer into the Golden Hall, whereas Merry led the others away to the guest rooms.

I was surprised and gratified that Elladan and Elrohir hugged me in the easy manner I would have hugged my male friends back on earth. I grinned at them delightedly. My, was I glad that at least these two elves would not leave Middle-earth right away but at least stick around for my lifetime. Celeborn politely indicated a hand kiss, then moved on to chat with Éowyn.

Elrond inclined his head gracefully towards me. I whispered something like, "Wonderful to see you again, my Lord Elrond." I felt so horribly clumsy all of a sudden that I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me. Elves do have those odd effects on you.

Galadriel embraced me, too. She smelled of blossoms and of cool, clear water. Don't ask me how someone can smell that way. But she did. Galadriel's eyes were just as deep and turquoise as I remembered them. But her face seemed softer, more relaxed, as if a heavy weight had been lifted from her heart.

"I am sorry for your loss," she told me in a calm voice, so that only I would hear her words.

"Thank you," I whispered. Sometimes I made it through a whole day without thinking about Boromir. Not often, but sometimes. Such things just take time. Where in those days of war only an impossible promise and a somewhat desperate desire had held my heart, in these days of peace my heart was filled in equal parts with – I admit – fluff, desire and high hopes for a future filled with happiness. That helped.

"It is good to see that you are able to move on and be happy," the lady said and smiled at Éomer. She had not lost that power. Éomer must have felt her gaze and turned around. For a moment it seemed to me as if the proud warrior blushed a little under his tan, discomfited under the lady's gaze. He came over to us and positioned himself next to me in quite a protective way. I enjoyed standing close to him, feeling the warmth of his body against my side. The lady's smile widened and she gave me a tiny wink.

"I am lucky," I said and my smile belonged to Éomer. "Really lucky."

Dark eyes lit up in an answer that did not need any words.

Then Arwen walked over to me. Her embrace was unexpectedly fierce. "It is good to meet you again, Lothíriel." The words practically tumbled out of her mouth. Suddenly there were tears in her eyes. She was more than nervous. Underneath her happiness threatened a deep well of despair.

_Fuck,_ was the word that came to my mind.

I remembered how I had met Arwen in Rivendell. A high, lovely lady, but easy to talk to and to laugh with. I remembered how her eyes had lit up whenever she saw Aragorn. How his eyes had lit up whenever he saw Arwen. Now she was travelling to her wedding and her one true love, and all she should be was be happy and care-free, and look at her!

_Life sucks._

I might not be good at girl talk, but I did realize when someone was on the verge of tears. It would do nothing for the atmosphere if Arwen were to break down crying with nerves and grief in front of her father, who looked to be on the verge of tears himself.

"Tea for three," I said firmly. "Éowyn, why don't you and I have some tea with Arwen in the rose garden. Some peace and quiet before the festivities." I widened my eyes at my friend and raised my eyebrows slightly. Éowyn did not have the sixth sense of an elf, but she was very perceptive. Probably more so than I was.

"My lords, my lady, if you will excuse us," Éowyn said politely. "If you will follow me? The rose garden is really beautiful this time of the year." Then she walked briskly ahead of us towards the rose garden.

"Come, my lady," I whispered and, firmly banishing that feeling of awe that seemed to be inevitable in the presence of the elves, forced myself to put my arm around Arwen and lead her off, following Éowyn. Éowyn in passing ordered a servant to serve tea and things for three in the pavilion in the rose garden.

"Oh, but that is indeed a beautiful garden," Arwen exclaimed when she walked through the gate.

The rose garden of Edoras was exceptionally beautiful. It was hidden in a sheltered southern corner behind the palace, and during the last days it had filled up with colourful, delicate blossoms and a delightful, heady fragrance. A small fountain, decorated with a dolphin of all things, strangely out of place in this horse-centric environment, burbled with clear, cool water and to one side of the garden there was an enormous aviary with some twenty or thirty song birds native to Rohan, which were trilling happy songs all day. At the centre of the rose garden was a thatched pavilion with a round table and some simple wooden chairs set around it. Éowyn and I often had our tea in that pavilion during the last sunny days, which is how I happened on the idea to go there with Arwen for some respite.

"There, sit down and relax," I told Arwen. The elf promptly slumped down as ungraceful as any human girl, hid her face in her arms and started crying.

Éowyn looked at me with a bewildered expression on her face. I shrugged. How could I possibly explain what I suspected to be the reason for Arwen's tears? Now was not the time for explanations. Éowyn nodded and walked away to get the tea herself, sparing Arwen the humiliation of servants witnessing her outburst. As a shield-maiden of Rohan she knew about pride and keeping up appearances in dire circumstances. I sat down next to Arwen and, elf-maiden or no, put my arm around her. Finally her sobbing stopped. I produced a wrinkled white kerchief from my pocket, grateful that I had managed for once not only to have one on my person, but that it was clean, too.

Arwen rubbed impatiently at her eyes and blew her nose. When she looked at me again, you would not have believed that she had been sobbing her heart out a minute before. No red-rimmed and blotchy eyes for elvish princesses. Life's unfair that way.

"Thank you," she said, her voice trembling. "You must think me very strange. Here I am on the way to my wedding, to the one I love, and I am so happy, and at the same time I am so sad. I feel like I'm breaking apart. I have waited many lonely years to be wed, imagining all the details of this day… And now I only wish the wedding was already over." She sighed, then pulled herself together with an almost visible effort, managing a brave smile that would have flattened most mortal men well and good. But somehow I managed to see through that brave smile. Somehow, for the first time, I was able to see not the elf, but the person. Her smile was an act. It was a good act as acts go, but it was only that, an act.

"I know I am being silly," Arwen repeated and went on in an obviously well-rehearsed litany. "It's probably only the journey, a case of nerves, because of the wedding…"

"You are not silly. And I know it's neither the journey, nor the wedding," I told her. "Look, I may be mortal, but I'm not stupid. It's o.k. if you are sad."

At that moment Éowyn came back with a tray with cups, plates, a pot of tea and a cake.

She put down the tray and swiftly poured tea and divided up the cake. Then she turned towards Arwen and smiled politely. "I don't think we have been introduced yet. I am Éowyn, sister to Éomer King, sister-daughter to Théoden son of Thengel."

Arwen made as if to rise and curtsy. But Éowyn shook her head. "Just stay seated and have that cup of tea. It's an herbal mixture. Lime and chamomile, to soothe you, my lady."

"Thank you," Arwen said. "But please, call me Arwen."

I was dismayed to hear about Éowyn's choice of tea. Although it might do wonders for Arwen's frazzled nerves, I am – when healthy – not really partial to chamomile tea. Éowyn grinned at me. Then she reached behind her back and put a second pot of tea on the table.

"You know that you are mean, Éowyn, don't you?"

Éowyn just grinned at me. Distracted, Arwen raised her eyebrows questioningly.

"Lothy here does not really like my herbal mixtures, that's all," Éowyn explained to the elf.

"Oh, but it is really good. And you made it quite strong. I guess I need that, though," Arwen admitted wryly.

"Éowyn is really good with herbs," I said, refusing to rise to the bait. "Do you feel better now?"

Arwen nodded. "Yes, I do. Thank you for…" She hesitated. "Thank you for getting me away from my Ada."

"What is the matter between you and your lord father, if I may be so bold and ask? You are going to marry a king and one of the most valiant and honourable men of our times," Éowyn asked. "How could your father be opposed to that?"

Silence stretched out between us, a silence filled with flitting thoughts: because she will die and he will leave Middle-earth, they will never see each other again…

"I will become mortal and die when I marry Aragorn," Arwen replied simply. "When my father leaves for Aman, the Blessed Realm, in a few years, we will never meet again, even beyond the end of time."

"You will sacrifice your immortality for Aragorn?" Éowyn stared at Arwen.

I felt my face grow in turns hot and cold as I remembered Éowyn's infatuation with Aragorn not so very long ago. And I had just dumped the reason for Aragorn's refusal to look at Éowyn as a woman right in her lap. Even though she really, truly loved someone else by now, it was probably not amusing to meet **the** other woman. But once again I had underestimated Éowyn. I guess I should have known. With her penchant for heroic deeds, this sacrifice immediately formed a bond between the two women.

"Yes, I will," Arwen whispered. "I have. I have sworn that I would never regret it. But to see Ada so sad…" Tears gleamed in her eyes.

What was there to say to that?

"I am sure your father will be happy when he sees that you are happy," Éowyn said encouragingly, though her eyes held the shadows of her own grief and loss. "And Aragorn is a truly great man."

Arwen nodded, trying, knowing that the other was right, but with her heart not really convinced.

"How do you do it?" she asked suddenly.

"How do we do what?" I looked at her, waiting for her to go on.

"How do you bear it to lose people you love forever?"

I felt a lump in my throat as my mind turned to a memory of a sunny afternoon on the banks of a cold mountain river, a memory of a smiling face, bright, grey eyes, sweet kisses and a promise that never came true.

Éowyn's eyes turned to that glassy stare you get when you are fighting against tears, and losing the battle. I knew what she remembered. She was the best friend I ever had. We had talked not only about sex during the nights here at Edoras. She was thinking about her uncle and her cousin right now. She was thinking of the day of the Battle of the Pelennor and of her uncle's body smashed under his beloved horse. She was thinking about the wee hours of a dark night spent sitting at the bedside of her cousin when all her hoping and praying had been in vain, and the eyes of a Worm had followed her every step.

"Well," I said slowly. Éowyn would not find words yet, I knew that. "We go on living. Day by bloody day. At first, you think you can't make it, to go on living without them. But you have to. You think about them, every day. Hell, every night. And it hurts so much that you think you can't bear it. You cannot even imagine that there might come a time when you don't think about them day and night. But you go on. What else is there to do? They would want you to go on. They would not want you to remain sad forever. And after a time, a few months, or a year, or two years, there comes a time when a day can go by and you don't think about the ones you lost. There comes a day when you can remember the good times you had together, there comes a time when you can be happy about each precious memory of the time you shared. There comes a day when you can look back and smile…"

There comes a time when the agony of loss turns into a bittersweet, aching smile.

I realized that I was not quite at the point of looking back with a smile yet where Boromir was concerned, but I noticed to my relief that the pain had faded to a tolerable ache. Talking about Boromir with Faramir and Éowyn had helped. Admitting that I had loved him and that I had lost him helped.

How long would it be until I would be able to live my own advice, until I would be able to look back with a smile?

As if on cue I felt tears well up in my eyes again, and knew at once that I would not be able to hold them back. _Damn it all to hell. The one day I had had a clean kerchief…_

I sniffed noisily and rubbed my sleeves across my eyes.

When I looked up, I saw that Éowyn was crying, too, releasing her grief in a silent flood that sparkled like tiny crystals on her cheeks in the sunlight.

This time, Arwen did not hide her tears.

So we sat in the rose garden of Edoras, two young women and one elf, and cried our hearts out over love and loss and war and the transience of mortal life. When we finally dried our tears and proceeded to drink our tea and eat our cake, we were friends, the three of us.

We were friends and have been ever since that sunny afternoon in the rose garden of Edoras.

Some friendships begin in a heap of manure. This one began with tears and a clean handkerchief.

You may guess which way I prefer.

Yes, you are right.

It's definitely the manure heap.

******ooo**

Two days later we set out for Minas Tirith.

I was disappointed when I realized that Glorfindel, the Lord of the Golden Flower, had not come to see Arwen married, but instead had remained behind to rule Imladris while Elrond was away.

Glorfindel had been my first friend among the elves. The first elf I knew beyond that feeling of breathless awe that the presence of the Firstborn inspired in me. It was him who had taught me how to shield my mind against the evil power of the enemy. Without Glorfindel's help, I would never have made it through the quest. I would have lost my life and probably my soul. I had wanted to thank him. I had wanted him to meet Éomer.

Now I was wondering if I would ever see the gold-haired elf again.

But although Glorfindel had not been able to come himself, to my surprise he had sent me a gift. It was a small bag of dark green velvet that contained two small elvish jewels of an exceptionally beautiful green colour. They would make perfect earrings to go with the beryl that I found so many months ago in the dust of the Last Bridge.

I guess that means even if I never see Glorfindel again, we will remain friends. Friends forever. We humans may be mortal, but that does not mean we don't have a little bit of immortality in our souls, too. I for one do believe that friendship and love may last forever. Through life and death and time and space.

Isn't this what life is all about?


	52. Crowned with Love

**52. Crowned with Love**

As the weather-wise among the Rohirrim had predicted, summer stayed true and hot for our journey to Minas Tirith. We rode under a golden sun through plains shimmering with the pale yellow of ripe grasses and made our camp under clear, starlit skies, caressed by soft summer breezes.

I rode with Éowyn and Arwen and delighted in the company and the companionship of the two women.

I have to admit that I was at first a little bit apprehensive about turning into the proverbial odd woman out between Éowyn and Arwen. Both were women of royal birth, both were born and bred in Middle-earth; I admit that I did wonder and worry where and if I could possibly fit in there. Back on earth I had more than once been caught in situations where three friends is one too many, and I am not talking sexual relationships here.

But it did not turn out that way.

I think Arwen was a little frightened by the fierce shield-maiden of Rohan, and Éowyn did not know how to handle Arwen's timidity. As I am neither especially shy nor especially extroverted, I was something like a link between them.

_The journey to Minas Tirith…_

The only thing I really minded about the fifteen days we needed to get from Edoras to Minas Tirith was that I did not get to spend more time with Éomer than during the busy days of politicking at Edoras before and after the Great Thing. I was too busy. He was too busy.

Sometimes I wondered if it would always be like that, seeing each other only in passing, gazing upon one another with longing eyes with little or no time to talk or touch or...

_Oh, well._ On the way to Minas Tirith, it was a noble purpose on my part that kept us away from each other.

Éowyn and I – there is no other word for it – ganged up on Arwen. In other words, we kept her as far away from her father as was possible within the bounds of politeness.

I admit that there were moments when I felt bad about this. But what was there to do?

Her father's sorrow was more than dampening Arwen's spirits. She was hurting every time she looked at him. Every time he looked at her. There's a real drawback to immortality. There's not only everlasting love to go with immortality, there's also a thing such as everlasting sorrow. When _I_ looked at Elrond, I remembered the feeling I had observing Frodo during the celebration on the Field of Cormallen. This dead look in the hobbit's eyes, as if he had to concentrate all the time to be able to see this world at all, so he would not sink into memories of death and darkness. Now, the strange thought occurred to me that even when I had first seen the Lord Elrond in Rivendell, he already had that kind of look in his eyes, too.

But as he was an elf and I just a girl, so I had thought, _what would you know about such things, Lothíriel, just let it go._ And then I had come out of _things_ more or less unscathed and untraumatized, so how would I be able to really understand that haunted look in Elrond's or Frodo's eyes. But here was the Lord Elrond riding to the marriage of his only daughter, after evil had been conquered and peace reigned supreme, and his eyes were an abyss of despair. And every time I saw Arwen near her father, this despair seemed to spread to Arwen. I could not turn away and act as if I did not see. And I felt that I did understand Arwen's feelings. At least a little bit. Well, a part of her sadness was easy to explain, I guess, even for an elf. She would never see her mother again. When she would bid her father farewell after her wedding, she would never see her father again. She would die and they would go on living. Arwen looked as if she was breaking apart with the knowledge of her father's suffering.

Perhaps I was wrong to interfere. I had no idea. But I reasoned that Arwen would have time enough to grieve later on. For the time being, she should be looking forward to marrying Aragorn, and not crying herself to sleep every night on the road.

But that was the reasoning for my decision that we "girls" should ride together from Edoras to Minas Tirith – and keep as far away from the Lord Elrond as possible.

Éowyn was happy with the plan, although I never explained it in so many words. Actually, I think she was a little annoyed at the Lord Elrond. Though Éowyn's heart was firmly in Faramir's hands, the vague suspicion that the Lord Elrond might deem Aragorn – King of Kings, Hero of Heroes, the only man under the sun, who might, just might, equal her Faramir –, that the Lord Elrond might think this paragon of manly virtues not good enough for his daughter… that suspicion did not sit well with Éowyn. She did not – as many others did – seek the company of the elf-lord, but was content to ride with Arwen and me, talking about the marriage ceremonies of Gondor and Rohan or about horses.

Perhaps it is only wishful thinking in order to justify our scheme of preventing Arwen from spending with her father on the journey to Minas Tirith, but I think the Lady Galadriel knew exactly what Éowyn and I were up to and decided to aid us. She – along with Éomer, Elrohir and Elladan and numerous Rohirric lords and ladies – kept Elrond busy with discussions of lore and land. Maybe Elrond himself saw what we attempted and would rather that his daughter ride with us and be merry, than that she ride with him and be sad.

That way – no matter how our travelling arrangements came about – the journey to Minas Tirith turned out to be very pleasant, in spite of the tension between the various members of our company.

We were able to keep right on schedule and reached Minas Tirith on the evening of the thirty-first of June or _Nárië_. June or _Nárië_ in Middle-earth has thirty-one days. But the last day of June is actually reckoned as the first day of Midsummer. It was early evening of the day before Midsummer's day when we arrived at Minas Tirith.

Arwen would have no time to worry much about her wedding. The wedding was to be held on Midsummer's day, the hour of the sun's turning. "Sommersonnenwende" we call it in German; sounds nice, doesn't it? The day and the hour when summer's zenith has been reached, and the world is turning towards autumn and winter again. The symbolism was not lost on me. For her life Arwen's marriage meant the turning from eternal spring and summer to mortal autumn and winter. In her place, I would have agreed to any date but this one.

If you think I sound bitter about this wedding, you are right. I think there's a reason Tolkien does not have an account of the wedding in the book. Not every fairy tale has a happy ending in real life.

******ooo**

However, it was a perfect summer evening when we arrived in Minas Tirith.

The sky was blue as sapphire. The eastern horizon was already glittering with silver stars, but the West had not yet caught fire with the flaming colours of the setting sun. I felt drenched in golds and blues, with one of the longest and brightest days of the year.

As we rode from the Forannest to the Great Gates of the White City, our company changed ranks.

Now it was Elladan, who rode at the front, carrying the silver colours of Imladris. Behind them followed Erestor and Lindir and all the elven lords and ladies who had come from Rivendell to celebrate Arwen's wedding. Next came the herald of Lothlórien, a beautiful elvish lady, who held a banner that showed a golden tree. Behind her rode the Lady Galadriel and the Lord Celeborn and their glittering entourage. After the Galadhrim rode Elrohir, carrying a second banner with the silver colours of Imladris, and after him came at last the Lord Elrond and his daughter, the Lady Arwen.

And straggling along behind all that elvish beauty was the company of Rohirrim nobles and dignitaries invited for the wedding of the allied king. At the front of the Rohirric company was Frohwein, Éomer's herald, carrying the flag with the running white horse on the dark green field. Behind the banner of Rohan rode Éomer King, and with him was his squire, one Merry Brandybuck of the Shire. After Éomer it was the Lady Éowyn and, yes, the Lady Lothíriel on their beautiful Mearas – with which I do not mean to say that Éowyn was not beautiful, for she was, pale and proud and golden, and what was more, she looked so happy! Behind us followed the remainder of the retinue of the Rohirrim, the dignitaries and nobles of Rohan, all and sundry, excited and tired and probably as dusty and sweaty from the long day's ride as I was.

******ooo**

When we passed the Forannest, clarions sounded from the watchtowers of the Rammas Echor, and were at once answered by many bright trumpet calls from the walls of Minas Tirith. Was there someone impatiently waiting for our arrival at Minas Tirith?

Indeed! Aragorn was waiting for us at the Great Gates of Minas Tirith, which had been restored to at least a semblance of their old iron strength during the weeks we had been away, so that the city would not be completely without gates until a suitable replacement for them could be constructed.

Aragorn was clothed in black and silver but his cloak was blue, and he wore the winged crown of Númenor. Behind him the members of the fellowship who had remained at Minas Tirith stood in a line to the right, and to the left waited Faramir, Húrin of the Keyes, Prince Imrahil and Lady Míriël. Minas Tirith flowed with white and silver banners, and way up on the Tower of Ecthelion, even as we dismounted at the Great Gates, the silver and golden banners of Imladris and Lothlórien were being hoisted along with the colours of Rohan.

As if they had rehearsed it, the entourage of Imladris lined up on the left side of the road, whereas the company from Lothlórien arranged themselves to the right, leaving Aragorn to face the Lord Elrond and the Lady Arwen.

Elrohir took the reins of their steeds. Elrond dismounted and then aided Arwen down from her horse. The Lord of Imladris offered his daughter his arm. I watched as Arwen laid her white, trembling hand on her father's. I did not need to see her eyes to know that they were brimming with tears. I preferred to not being able to see her father's eyes.

Now Elladan approached his father and knelt down before him, offering him a silver rod of the same exquisite, flowing style as Aragorn's crown. I had been told what it was: the sceptre of Annúminas that had been brought to Middle-earth by Elendil himself and had been part of the royal insignia of the North-Kingdom of Arnor. It had been kept at Rivendell. Now that the king had returned to Minas Tirith, and the realms of old were reunited, the sceptre would be held by the King of Gondor once more.

With measured steps Lord Elrond led his daughter towards the King of Gondor and Arnor. Three feet from Aragorn they halted. Elrond raised his head and looked at Aragorn in silence for a long moment. Then he spoke in a clear voice: "_Tollen anno mir in-ardh-en-daur a dineth in-ind-en-daur_. I have come to give a jewel to the realm of the king and a bride to the heart of the king."

He took Arwen's hand and placed it firmly in Aragorn's hand. In that instance a glorious smile lit up her face and Aragorn's eyes were positively glowing with love and joy. But I also saw how a sigh escaped the sad elf-lord's lips.

Now, I was in no position to bitch at the Valar, after all they were now my Gods, too, and their ways of taking an almost Greek interest in the dealings of men and elves commanded an amount of real life respect that cannot be compared to the religions of Earth. But even though I don't really dare to criticize the Valar, and Gandalf told me that Eru Ilúvatar kind of takes a long range view of things, I think in the case of Elrond, Eru and the Valar are taking a long range view of things that is a bit hard even for the bravest and strongest immortal being to take. I really hope that he will be happily reunited with his wife when he gets to that elvish realm across the sea.

Anyway, after Elrond had spoken those words and given his daughter away, he then knelt down before Aragorn and presented to him the sceptre of Annúminas. Aragorn accepted the sceptre, inclining his head gracefully.

"I thank thee with all my heart," Aragorn said simply.

Elrond rose to his feet again.

Only then deafening cheers rose from all the walls of Minas Tirith. I realized that probably each and every inhabitant of the city was crowded up on the sentry walks of the battlements to witness the arrival of the queen-to-be. Arwen blushed prettily and raised her hand in a shy gesture of greeting and gratefulness. The cheering increased to a sound of thunder fit to shake the foundations of the city.

Already the people of Minas Tirith and Gondor loved their beautiful queen.

******ooo**

Then it was time to enter the city and walk up to the Citadel.

As we passed through the Great Gates I had the eeriest feeling of déjà-vu.

Probably a simple mix-up of the celebratory processions into Minas Tirith and Edoras and the fading memories of the movies. Nevertheless the tiny hairs rose at the back of my neck, and an involuntary shiver passed over my body. The strange sensation dissipated when we walked up to the second circle of the city, and I was getting hot and sweaty again even though the heat of the day was already gone, especially when I realized how far we still had to walk until we had a chance of getting something to eat or drink or going to the toilet.

Aragorn and Arwen walked hand in hand ahead of the bulk of elvish and Rohirric wedding guests. They had no thoughts left for heat or sweat or hunger or thirst. That was pretty obvious. And very sweet, actually.

But behind the king and his bride Elrond walked alone.

After him followed the rest of the elven and human dignitaries. At last it was Éowyn and I, still side by side, both of us with a dreamy-eyed expression on our faces, I bet, and images in our minds that involved one very grey-eyed and one very dark-eyed warrior leading us towards our future as a married woman.

******ooo**

As I said before, it was a long way up to the Citadel. And it was a noisy way, too. By the time we reached the fifth circle of the city, I was wondering if anyone would be up to any cheering for the wedding tomorrow, or if all of Minas Tirith would be reduced to a hoarse croaking of their blessings. I was also wondering if they had any blossoms left to decorate the Hall of Merethrond for the wedding ceremony tomorrow. By the amounts of flowers that rained down on us, I thought it highly unlikely. Perhaps the flowers had been shipped from Ithilien.

When we reached the Place of the Fountain at the foot of the White Tower of Ecthelion, the sun was finally setting in a brilliant display of colours, and my feet hurt like hell. The western horizon was glowing, rimmed with a deep amethyst halo that was gradually darkening into an indigo hue with myriads of blazing silver stars over the city of Minas Tirith. As I beheld the Place of the Fountain, I gasped, my breath catching hard in my throat.

The dead white tree of Minas Tirith was gone.

In its place grew a slender white seedling of a tree that was only as tall as a tall man, and as the last golden-red rays of sunlight touched the tree, I saw that its boughs were laden with white and pink blossoms. The sweet fragrance of the blossoms filled the air with a heady floral perfume.

Two white chairs had been placed underneath the tree and it was to those two chairs that Aragorn led Arwen. She gracefully sat down in the right chair while Aragorn took the left.

In that moment many lanterns and torches were lit all around the Place of the Fountain, and an orchestra of Gondor's finest musicians, assembled on the dais in front of the Tower of Ecthelion, started playing. It was music that sounded golden like the sun, and glittering like the stars, and clear like a mountain stream, a music of harps and flutes and violins, a music that was floating in the air like gossamer.

As I looked around me, I realized that all around the Place of the Fountain and on the Embrasure, the rockface that jutted out of the hill of Minas Tirith like the proud keel of an immense ship, tables and chairs had been set about, and many servants in the black and white livery of the Citadel were hurrying towards us, carrying silver trays with wine and champagne and a variety of delicious foods. Soon song and laughter mingled in joyful celebration.

Arwen was greeted with a royal welcome indeed.

I looked at her, as she sat with Aragorn under the flowering white tree. She was beautiful beyond any woman I had ever seen. Her elvish beauty had always been there, of course. She had the lithe, graceful figure of an elvish queen, slender as a dancer of ballet but with delicate womanly curves. She wore her hair as a silken mantle of shadows, her tresses flowing in gentle waves down to her hips, held back only by a silver circlet set with white diamonds. And with her starlit, silver-grey eyes, with her high brow and her smiling lips (the first lips I ever saw that really looked like the petals of a rose), she really looked more like an angel than a mortal being.

But it was more about her that night even than that elvish, angelic beauty. It was a beauty that made me forget my hurting feet and my sweaty, itching skin.

Arwen was shining like a star, because she was radiant with happiness.

She was crowned with the light of love.

She shone with an almost tangible halo of love, and it was this light of love that elevated her beauty beyond any elvish or mortal woman who ever walked the lands of Arda.

I stood at the edge of the square and gaped at her, almost forgetting to breathe. Then I heard a small sigh next to me. When I looked to my left, I saw that Frodo had joined me in my reverence of the future Queen of Gondor. His eyes were filled with wonder.

"Now I understand what we have waited for," Frodo said with awe in his voice. "This is the end and the new beginning. Now not only day shall be beloved, but night too shall be beautiful and blessed and all its fear shall pass away!"

******ooo**

But at the very edge of the Embrasure a shadowy figure was standing all alone, staring out across the desolate and infertile fields of the Pelennor and beyond the Rammas Echor to the silver, starlit floods of the Anduin. It was the Lord Elrond, and his head was bent in a sorrow that would never be lifted either in Arda or in Aman.

******ooo**

I shivered slightly at the sight, then I made myself turn around and go in search of something to drink and the toilets.


	53. Humbled in Love

"An angel does not stop being an angel merely because they fall from grace; their wings are not so easily taken."

_– Laurell K. Hamilton (in "Incubus Dreams", orbitbooks edition, p.496)_

* * *

**oooOooo**

**53. Humbled in Love**

The morning of midsummer's day dawned with silver mists rising from the Anduin, dissolving into a light blue where it was touched by the summer sun. I was back in the white villa on the sixth circle of the city with the other members of the fellowship. I was up way before dawn because of the wedding.

******ooo**

Why should I be up before dawn because of the wedding, you may ask. What did I have to do with the wedding, you may ask. Questions, which I was asking myself, as I sat in the living room of the white villa, sipping my _tírithel_ and waiting for a servant to take me to the palace.

The answer to the questions mentioned above is fairly easy. I was up before dawn and waiting to go to the Royal Palace, because I was _in_ the wedding.

Not by choice, I hasten to add. I would have been more than happy with a very unobtrusive position somewhere in the background. But alas, I had not been made aware of the fact that there had been correspondence between Minas Tirith and Rivendell about the wedding. If I had known about the arrangements that had been made, I would still be running. But alas, I had been blissfully unaware of the existence of the Middle-earth variety of messenger birds, a large species of thrushes, native to the region of Dale, and the preferred method of getting short messages of less importance from Minas Tirith to Edoras, to Rivendell, to Dol Amroth and back. And Éowyn would be running ahead of me. Well, perhaps not really, but if you are supposed to be a bridesmaid in a royal wedding, you would like to know about it a little bit sooner than twelve hours before the wedding ceremony, wouldn't you?

Anyway, what had happened had been that Arwen had decided long ago that her wedding should be a human style wedding. After all, she would become a mortal woman because of her marriage. Therefore, it should be a human style wedding. Another decision to cheer up her father no end, I'm sure. But with messages taking so long into either direction, somehow both sides had assumed everything had been taken care of regarding the queen-to-be's attendants. Of course you know what "assume" does: it makes an _ass_ out of "u" and "me".

I think Míriël had actually wanted twelve bridesmaids and had made arrangements accordingly since there had been no objections from Rivendell on that account. Think the wedding of Princess Diana way back then and you have the general idea of a royal wedding in Gondor. Just substitute the tower hall for the cathedral and you've got it about right.

Arwen on the other hand had not wanted to take the "human style wedding" idea quite that far and had been shocked to say the least. But Míriël is a wonderful, caring woman. When she saw just how nervous Arwen was about the whole affair, Míriël had simply changed plans at short notice and reduced the number of bridesmaids to Éowyn and Lothíriel (who had not been informed about either version of the plans, because it was _assumed _she knew about everything anyway). The result of all that planning and changing of plans was without doubt that there were women out there that very moment who hated me from the depths of their hearts. I would honestly have preferred to be one of twelve. If it was absolutely necessary for me to be in the wedding, I would have preferred being not quite as visible. I'm still not used to moving in the exalted circles of Gondorian and Rohirric nobility, I guess.

There was one good thing about the change, though. Our dresses. As the one with the royal background, attire had to be fitted according to Éowyn's wishes, and that meant: Rohirric custom. We got to wear trousers and tunics. _Yippee skippee_. It was bad enough to become a royal bridesmaid over night. But being asked to wear formal dresses to the wedding of an elvish queen of divine beauty on top of that would drive even the most beautiful and self-assured mortal woman into suicide. Neither Éowyn nor I could be judged to be the most beautiful human woman in the world. There are dozens of women at court who are just as pretty as we are, and quite a number who are actually beautiful, which we are not. The Lady Míriël herself, for example. And Éowyn's much prettier than I am. Anyway, the fact that I would be allowed to dress like a shield-maiden of Rohan, too, alleviated the shock of being told that I would be one of the bridesmaids when the king of Gondor would marry his elvish queen.

However, there was still a minor problem about this arrangement: we had no gowns suitable to wear to a royal wedding dressed as shield-maidens of Rohan. I have no idea how Míriël kept calm, especially as there are no beta blockers or valium in Middle-earth. But she kept calm and businesslike and simply announced that she was sure that Lady Darla of the Golden Scissors would get the outfits done in time.

Éowyn and I had been dragged away from the welcome feast so that Lady Darla could take her measurements. Lady Darla shook her head at me for not gaining enough weight to get any of my curves back. I blamed it on Éowyn. Lady Darla told me to hush and that Éowyn had a completely different figure. She might be right there. But it was still Éowyn's fault. Éowyn had kept me exercising day and night with sword, dagger and bow in Edoras, and if she had not done that, she had done her best to chase me all over the plains on my "Mimi-horse", the admittedly disrespectful pet name that my noble Mithril had acquired in my mind.

But Lady Darla thought we would look good together, especially dressed in Rohirric uniforms. "They will look exotic, compared to the noble ladies of Gondor, perhaps rather like youths than young ladies; but as it is impossible to have a mortal woman look good next to the Lady Arwen, that's perhaps just as well."

Míriël laughed at that and thanked Darla for her honesty. Éowyn scowled at the dressmaker and muttered something about how dressmakers were apparently of limited capacity of politeness and possessed only little flair for choosing appropriate compliments. This comment in turn made Darla laugh. "Because I am not paid for politeness, my lady, but for pretty dresses," the dressmaker retorted. Then she smiled and held the softest fabric against my body. "You will be beautiful, Lady Lothíriel," she said softly. "In your own way." I did not know what to say to that.

******ooo**

And that's how I came to be sitting in the window seat of the white villa of the fellowship, sipping _tírithel_ and waiting for a servant to take me to the palace, where the finished dresses – tunics – uniforms, whatever, would be waiting for me and Éowyn for the final fittings. An ominous sounding expression, isn't it? _"Final fittings"…_

I sat with my cup of _tírithel _and watched the silver mist of an early summer morning swirling up from the Anduin beyond the Rammas Echor. Now at the height of summer, the fields of Lossarnach that I could see from the windows of the white villa did not hold the lush, young green I remembered from spring anymore, but had acquired deeper colours. The ripening fruits and wilting greens of fields and orchards showed already more of the rich, brown soil again. Between green squares of corn and vegetables I could see large acres filled with blooming yellow sunflowers.

However, I was in no mood to contemplate the idyllic view. I was nervous. I was really nervous. Actually, I felt sick. And it was not even my own wedding.

Then there was a knock on the door, and a young page in the by now familiar black and white livery of the Citadel was shown inside. He bowed to me. "My lady, I am to take you to the royal palace."

"Of course," I said. "I am ready to go."

I got up and followed the boy outside. _I am to take you to the royal palace…_

As I hurried behind the page towards the seventh circle of Minas Tirith, I felt really strange all of a sudden. As if I was caught in a dream or a fairy tale. Outside, although it was still early in the morning, the summer sky glowed in bright ultramarine with no cloud at all. The sun was almost glaring in its brilliance, leaving the softer and cooler colours of morning swiftly behind and already there was a hint of heat in the air. Every flat surface around me seemed to blaze whitely with reflected sunlight: the walls of the houses gleamed with fresh white colour, the cleanly swept pavement with its off-white colour was only a few shades darker than the houses, and the newly whitewashed walls of the battlements shone brightly, too. _Sunglasses… a kingdom for sunglasses… no, they are probably not worth a kingdom…_

I wiped sweat from my forehead and heaved a relieved sigh when we reached the cool marble shadows of the Royal Palaces. Up a flight of stairs of black and white marble, and I was back in the apartment that had been taken over by Darla of the Golden Scissors for the wedding preparations.

Éowyn was already there and arguing about the colours of our outfits.

"But we don't wear grey," she was saying, "green and brown, red and gold, but not grey."

The Lady Darla looked at the recalcitrant shield-maiden with raised eyebrows. Then she smiled sweetly and said, "The Lady Arwen will wear the blue of innocence. Brown or green does not go well with blue. You will wear grey."

That was an order if ever I heard one. But I think it was not the order that kept Éowyn silent, but the thought how it was unlikely that she would be able to persuade the Lady Darla to make Éowyn's wedding gown when she annoyed the Lady now.

I for one gaped at the outfits hanging on the tailor's dummies.

They were _beautiful!_

They were Rohirric but had the noble flair of Gondor.

They were not dresses, but they were very feminine.

There were tight fitting silvery grey leggings, silver, bell-sleeved shirts made of silk and tunics of black, silver and white, which would end just above the knees, slit at the sides and longer at the back. There were beautiful black leather belts to go with the outfits, etched in silver. Éowyn would look utterly perfect in this get-up, with her white skin and golden hair and grey eyes.

I tried not to sigh, thinking of my own appearance. Brown hair, muddy eyes, and yes, I had acquired a tan. I did sigh. I am really not terribly vain, but just once in my life I would really like not to feel like the ugly duckling. At least the long sleeves would hide the scars at my wrists. And as there was no cleavage in those shirts and tunics, I did not have to worry about the other scar either. Take the good with the bad. I did not argue about the colour scheme.

Final fittings. Luckily there was not much that had to be adjusted. There's a reason why everyone and her brother is in awe of Lady Darla and her scissors.

Then we were called for rehearsal.

Yes, there was a rehearsal for Arwen's wedding ceremony.

Aragorn and Arwen were not present, but Faramir, the Lady Míriël, a dozen others… and Éomer. He was standing at the back of the hall, watching us without drawing attention to his presence. When I looked at him, his eyes lit up.

_How I would have liked to run to him and…_

It was going to be a simple ceremony, Míriël told us.

I raised my eyebrows at her. I did not believe one word she said. Nor did anyone else; and the way the rehearsal went did nothing to prove Míriël's point. However, it did alleviate everyone's nervousness. A little, at least.

However, I rather thought that the truly sticky part was not the wedding ceremony itself, but the necessary consummation of the marriage afterwards that also involved certain rituals. Well, we were in Gondor, so what did I expect? Simply getting into bed and getting it over with? No way. Not a chance. Not here.

After dinner and dancing, the lords (only the lords, thank God!) of Gondor would accompany the royal couple to the King's House and the royal sleeping quarters and wait, WAIT in front of their door for the marriage to be consummated and proper proof of this being shown with a bloodied sheet. No kidding. Arwen must have been out of her mind to agree to a human style wedding. Éowyn had told me that they would probably use a little bit of blood from a freshly slaughtered animal, which in earlier days would then have ended up as a sacrifice to the Valar, and send the audience away before doing anything like really consummating the marriage. I don't think that Aragorn would take Arwen's virginity with twenty lords waiting in front of the bedroom. But I think that even faking the proper procedures would really put me off sex. Then a thought occurred to me. If this was the way a royal wedding was done in Gondor, how would they do it in Rohan? I shuddered at the thought.

Then the lords would return to the Hall of Merethrond, carrying that bloody bloodied sheet, show it to the assembled guests. _Elrond was going to love that. _

_  
Hell, _I hoped someone had thought to tell her brothers about this custom._ **They **were going to really love that. Hopefully, they would not break down the door of the royal sleeping quarters and kill the new King of Gondor. _

Anyway, the sheet would be shown to the guests. There would be cheers and a toast, and then we would party the whole night through.

Thoroughly briefed as to the proceedings of the royal wedding, everyone was allowed to leave for the time being.

******ooo**

The wedding would be held at five o'clock in the afternoon.

Until then the Hall of Merethrond, the tower hall and the entire seventh circle of the city would be swarming with servants decorating everything in a festive way, getting tables and chairs in place, arranging the dance floors and the stages for the musicians and turning the Citadel and the surrounding buildings and places into a veritable ant heap.

The Lady Míriël invited Éowyn and me for a light lunch to her rooms. We accepted gratefully. The morning of fittings and rehearsal had been quite straining. Éowyn's face showed the tension of growing irritation at the flurry of activities and all the fussing that was going on. I for one felt a strange rushing sound in my ears. Nerves. Just nerves.

_And it was not even my wedding…_

We had a cold soup of cucumbers and some kind of wraps with cheese and stuffing. And cool, clear water. I rubbed my temples and looked at the calm and smiling Lady Míriël.

"I don't know how you can stay this calm. I think I would be having a nervous breakdown if I was in your place, or at the very least a screaming fit," I said, my voice full of admiration.

Éowyn was silent. But I think she was having second thoughts about getting married at all.

Should I tell her about quiet, private registry office weddings? No, probably not. That would be really mean.

Míriël's smile dimpled a little. But her eyes showed a certain fatigue. "Nervous breakdowns and screaming fits would not help me see this through. And they would not help the Lady Arwen at all. She is really _very_ nervous."

Míriël shook her head, and then she grinned at me somewhat impishly, making her appear years younger, almost girlish. "I think I might be saving the screaming fit for tomorrow when everything's over. I'll lock the door behind me and scream and scream and scream. And I will thank the Valar that it will be at least a year until we have the next noble wedding in Gondor." She smiled at Éowyn. Éowyn gulped nervously. I grinned happily. Éowyn raised her eyebrows at me and proceeded to wipe the grin off my face with a few well chosen words. "And perhaps in Rohan… I think I should tell you, Lothíriel, that we have some very strange wedding customs." Now it was my turn to gulp. My stomach flipped over.

Míriël was back to shaking her head. But this time she was definitely shaking her head _at_ us.

_"Girls…" _

******ooo**

After lunch we were washed, dressed and fussed over until even I felt like screaming.

_But_ we were ready and quite beautiful at half past four.

We went down to the entrance hall of the royal apartments.

Arwen was waiting for us there.

Do I even have to say it?

She was beautiful.

She was even more beautiful than yesterday. She was dressed in clouds of blue silk. Different hues of blue that brought out a blue shimmer in her eyes. She wore her hair open. Her hair flowed down below her hips, a gleaming cloak of shadowy silk. Here and there silvery-white pearls were threaded into her hair. Preparing her hair must have taken hours. A delicate floral fragrance hung in the air around her. But she did not wear any makeup. As an elf, she did not need to. And apart from the pearls in her hair, she did not wear any jewellery at all. She looked like an angel of innocence.

_An angel with invisible wings…_

And, ye gods, she looked nervous. She was pale even for an elf, and she was pacing back and forth in a continuous rustle of silk, sweeping the floor.

Her father and her brothers were with her. They were dressed in silver and grey, just as Éowyn and I were. Do I need to say that they looked much better than we did?

If I should marry at all, there will be no elves at my wedding.

Elladan and Elrohir were grinning and trying to calm down their sister. Elrond… if he had been human, I would have said he looked close to tears.

Then it was time.

Elrond offered Arwen his arm. Arwen allowed herself to be led out of the palace into the sunlight. The walk from the King's House to the Tower of Ecthelion and the Tower Hall had been fenced off with garlands of flowers. Behind those garlands a huge crowd of spectators was gathered, being held back by imperious guards, dressed in black and white, wearing swords and holding tall spears with bright silver tips in their hands.

When they beheld Arwen, the crowd went positively crazy. They clapped, they shouted, they cheered, they waved, they threw flowers. Elrond and Arwen halted for a moment. Arwen gave the crowd a sweet, wavering smile and lifted her right hand. The applause that went up was deafening.

We walked on.

I looked at Éowyn, walking along at my side. Again, I thought, _ye gods, I am so nervous_. _And it isn't even my own wedding_. Éowyn's lips were pressed together in tight white lines. She was nervous, too. Behind us I heard Elladan and Elrohir chuckle softly. I guess they were really the only ones completely unfazed by the event.

The sun was so brilliant that the light positively hurt my eyes. I was glad when we reached the Tower of Ecthelion. Although it looked like a diamond from the outside, glittering in the sunlight, inside it would be cool and shadowy.

When we reached the Tower Hall, bells began to ring. First there were only the great bells at the top of the Tower of Ecthelion, then the bells of the palace joined in and finally all the bells of all the towers of the city, down to the first circle of the city, far below the Citadel.

The great black doors of the hall were thrust open, and we entered the tower hall and throne room of Gondor with slow, measured steps. Music accompanied our entrance, mingling with the tolling of the bells outside. The hall was filled with nobles, dignitaries, elves, men, heroes and friends.

We passed smiling face upon smiling face as we walked towards the dais with the white throne of Gondor and the black banner with the bright crown and seven stars behind it.

But the greatest smile was on Aragorn's face, who stood waiting to the left-hand side before the dais. Behind him stood the hobbits in their sombre black-and white uniforms, and with them stood Faramir and his squire, Bergil.

Together with Elrohir and Elladan, Éowyn and I walked to the right-hand side and took up our positions. I sighed with relief. The first part of the wedding was over with no mishap. Then I watched with a lump in my throat how Elrond led Arwen to Aragorn. In the dark eyes of the elven lord the warmth of love for both Aragorn and Arwen mingled with his deep sorrow.

He halted before Aragorn.

The music stopped.

Silence filled the hall.

Elrond turned towards his daughter. Tears glistened in his eyes. Arwen was crying silently. Elrond took his daughters hands and raised them to his lips. He did not say a word. I will never forget the look in his eyes. Love, happiness, pain and sorrow, all there, in one deep look.

Then he lowered her hands. Still holding her hands, he turned her towards Aragorn. With a slow, deliberate movement, Elrond held Arwen's right hand out to Aragorn. Then he reached for Aragorn's hand.

For a long moment Elrond held the hands of both Aragorn and Arwen, standing very still, as if he could not bear to let go of either of them.

I could not hear it, of course. But I thought I could _see_ how Elrond sighed deeply. At last, he somehow found the strength to smile. Through all his sorrow and his pain, the love for his foster-son and his daughter rose like a great shining light.

He smiled at Aragorn.  
He smiled at Arwen.

With a firm, fluid movement he took Aragorn's and Arwen's hands and joined them together.

He held their hands together in a tight grip.

When he spoke, his voice was firm and calm and filled with warmth.

"_Tollen anno mir in-ardh-en-daur a dineth in-ind-en-daur_. I have come to give a jewel to the realm of the king and a bride to the heart of the king. _Tollen anno cen iëll-nîn an hervess-chîn, meli an anwa, gar a berio, nan fern len methatha. _I have come to give you my daughter as your wife, to love and to cherish, to have and to hold until death will part you."

Aragorn and Arwen had only eyes for one another, but both of them were crying now.

Elrond slowly drew his hands back.

Then he turned and walked to stand next to Elrohir at the side.

Now Faramir and Bergil came forward. Faramir held a blue cushion of velvet in his hands and on it lay the silver crown of the Queen of Gondor, a more delicate version of the winged crown on Aragorn's head, set with a single white diamond at the front. Frodo carried a smaller cushion of the same dark blue velvet with a large golden key placed on it.

Faramir knelt down in front of them, and Aragorn took the crown and placed it on Arwen's head. Faramir rose to his feet again and stepped back with a smile on his face.

Now Frodo knelt down in front of Arwen and held the cushion with the golden key out to her.

She took the key and held it high.

At that Faramir cried, "Behold the Queen!"

Everyone cheered and clapped, and not a few, men as well as women, shed a tear or two. Now, finally at Aragorn's side, Arwen was smiling radiantly, her tears gone. She carefully placed the key back on the cushion and turned to Aragorn again. As Frodo walked back to Faramir's side, Aragorn took Arwen's hand again.

Together they turned towards the dais and the white throne of Gondor.

Gandalf stepped to the centre of the dais.

He smiled at Aragorn and Arwen, his blue eyes were bright and his old, lined face was filled with happiness.

"Do you, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, take this woman, Arwen, daughter of Elrond, as your wedded wife, to love and to cherish, to have and to hold, from this day onwards till death will part you?" Gandalf asked, his scratchy wizard's voice ringing through the Tower Hall.

Aragorn squeezed Arwen's hand and answered in a firm voice that was bright with love and happiness. "Yes, I do."

Then Gandalf turned to Arwen. "Do you, Arwen, daughter of Elrond, take this man, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, to be your wedded husband, to love and to cherish, to have and to hold, from this day onwards till death will part you?"

Arwen looked at Aragorn. Her eyes shone like silver stars. Her voice was light and clear with love as she replied, "Yes, I do."

They exchanged golden rings.

They did not let go of each other's hands, even when they turned back to Gandalf for the blessing of their union.

Arwen was looking so happy and so beautiful now that I thought my heart would burst with joy at the sight of her so shining with love and happiness. She looked like love come alive. She looked like a fairy-queen.

She looked like an _angel_ of love. I would not have been surprised to see white wings unfurling at her back.

Gandalf raised his arms in the gesture of blessing and prayer.

"Husband and wife I call you, King and Queen I call you, love and beloved I call you. May the One and the Valar bless you and your marriage every hour and every day."

A sigh of happiness swept through the Hall of Merethrond. It seemed to be a blessing even to witness this union of love of this noble and brave king and this divinely beautiful and virtuous queen.

The wizard lowered his arms and grinned at Aragorn and Arwen.

"You may kiss your wife, my lord."

Aragorn took Arwen's hands and pulled her against him. He lowered his face to hers and kissed her. Deeply, lovingly, blessedly.

It was this moment that the Valar accepted Arwen's choice.  
It was this moment that the Valar withdrew the grace of the Eldar from her.  
It was this moment that Arwen became mortal, once and for all.

The Valar have a cruel sense of timing.

The elvishness that surrounded Arwen like a golden, heavenly halo –

there one minute,  
gone the next.

A gasp went through the hall.

In an instant, as if a great holy hand had drawn away from somewhere above her, Arwen was changed.

She was still the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

She was still glowing with love and happiness.

But she was an elf no longer.

_The angel had fallen from grace._

******ooo**

The music began to play again, and Aragorn led Arwen down the Hall. Éowyn and I fell in place behind her, followed by Elrond and his sons.

I was glad that I could not see their faces.

We followed them down the aisle, until we reached the great doors, which were thrust wide open at the approach of the royal coupls so that brilliant sunlight flooded the hall. Stepping out into the sunshine, we found the Place of the Fountain bursting with onlookers. The guards were really put to it to keep the onlookers from stampeding towards the royal couple.

During the last months, I had heard some noisy cheering at several occasions. But all of them paled into insignificance against the roar of thousands and thousands of voices calling out to Arwen and Aragorn with cheers and blessings as they stepped into the blazing sunlight outside of the Tower Hall.

It was impossible to see the pavement anymore because of the many blossoms and petals that were thrown at Arwen and Aragorn. The air was filled with the heady fragrance of flowers. Harpers from Dol Amroth were assembled around the fountain and as the King and Queen of Gondor left the Hall of Kings, they began to play the sweetest music. It was a tune of sunshine and flowers and blessings and many, many good years to come.

Wreathed in flowers, blessings and golden rays of a glorious summer sun, Aragorn and Arwen walked to the Embrasure, the keel of the flagship of Gondor and most prominent feature of Minas Tirith. They were holding onto each other's hands like children. They were smiling foolishly with happiness. They were waving at the screaming, shouting and singing onlookers.

Suddenly a small, golden haired girl, a toddler of perhaps two years of age, made her way towards Arwen. She held a single white rose in her chubby hand. Aragorn and Arwen halted their progress, and Arwen bent down to the child. The girl stumbled over her own little feet and fell directly into Arwen's arms. Arwen laughed, and her laugh was bright and clear like bells. She accepted the rose from the little girl and kissed her on the cheek. Then she set the child on her way to her mother, who was already waiting for the girl behind the garlands of flowers fencing off the way to the Embrasure. I turned around to look for Míriël. I did not believe that this girl had been there by chance. Míri winked at me and gave me a delighted smile. The child had not been there by chance.

Arwen straightened up again and raised the white rose in her right hand, waving to the girl and her mother.

The cheering rose to a roar. I think the hill of Minas Tirith was trembling with the volume of cheering and clapping. It's a miracle they did not cause an earthquake or an avalanche with their happy noises.

Then we proceeded to the very edge of the Embrasure. Arwen and Aragorn looked down at the seven circles of Minas Tirith. Every street of every circle, and every sentry walk up on the battlements was filled with people. People from all over Gondor and from even further away had come to Minas Tirith for the wedding and to see the new King and his Queen.

Arwen and Aragorn looked at the seven circles of Minas Tirith, filled with laughing, cheering people. They looked at the arid, brown plains of where the battle of the Pelennor had taken place, desolate and sterile this summer. They looked towards the rebuilt walls of the Rammas Echor. They looked further still to the great silver ribbon of the Anduin flowing through the green hills of Ithilien.

They looked at their people.

They looked at their home.

They looked at each other.

They saw their presence and their future.

_And behold! _It was a good presence, and a good future.

There and then Aragorn and Arwen kissed again, deeply, lovingly, blessed by the golden sun and the cheers of their people.

As they turned around to us again, I realized that Arwen still looked like an angel.

She might be mortal now. She might have lost her elvish magic. She might be humbled in her love to a mortal man. She might have fallen from the grace of the Valar.

But she was still an angel.

_An angel's wings are not so easily taken._

******ooo**

But as we turned to walk back to the Hall of Merethrond for the wedding dinner, I realized that someone was missing. Arwen's father, the Lord Elrond, had disappeared and could not be found again during that evening and all through the night of joyful celebration.


	54. Party and Prayer

**54. Party and Prayer**

I sat with Éowyn in a corner of the Hall of Merethrond. Aragorn and Arwen had just withdrawn to their sleeping quarters, followed by the high lords of Gondor. We had acquired a jug of wine and were waiting for the lords to return.

I grinned at Éowyn. "Cheers!"

I raised my glass to her.

She blushed, but raised her glass in return. "The bride!"

Then she blushed even more. "Do you think she knows about… _umph_?"

I felt my own cheeks grow hot. _Would Arwen know about…_She was a few thousand years old.

She should know about… But her mother had been gone for a long time.

Suddenly a mad giggle bubbled up inside of me. "Well, if she doesn't know about… _umph…_ now, she will know about it shortly!"

Éowyn snorted her wine at me. "Oh, Valar, I hope they have thought of that blood."

Then a clarion sounded. _A clarion! _I ask you! How embarrassing can losing your virginity get? Anyway, the clarion sounded, and the high lords of Gondor came back into the Hall of Merethrond. And sure enough, Prince Imrahil carried a white bed sheet. He walked up to the dais of the throne and unfurled it like a great banner. A little bit off the centre of the sheet, to the right-hand side was a small red spot.

Cheers and whistles and clapping greeted the proof of the newly consummated marriage of the King of Gondor. Prince Imrahil folded up the sheet and gave it to a servant. Then he raised a huge golden goblet in a toast. "The King, the Queen, their first heir!"

Everyone jumped up, raised their glasses, mugs and goblets and echoed that toast. In another wave of cheering, yelling, whistling and clapping, the lords and ladies sat back down. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Elladan and Elrohir sitting on a bench with Haldir and Legolas. They wore a thoroughly disgusted look on their beautiful elvish faces and were glaring at the lords who had cheered a little too wholeheartedly in their close vicinity.

"Oh, my," I said. "I hope that was a fake, or Arwen can't have had much fun."

A strange gargling sound issued from Éowyn. As I looked at my friend, I saw that she was desperately trying to swallow her wine while laughing out loud at the same time.

Then my heart skipped a beat as I saw Éomer walking towards our table from the other end of the hall. Éowyn shook her head. "Dearly as I love my brother, I don't understand what it is that's gotten you sighing over him in that manner."

I shrugged. "I wouldn't know where to begin, did you ask me to list the things that fascinate me about your brother. And I am sure you are more interested in devising such a list to honour the qualities of one Lord Steward Faramir, aren't you?"

Luckily, before Éowyn could come up with a suitable follow up to this, Éomer had reached our table. "Two lovely ladies sitting all on their own? What a sad sight this is! May I sit down and share a glass of wine with you?" Éomer asked, but he looked more at me than at his sister. The wine and the excitement of the day made me feel all dizzy and light-headed. I had seen Éomer today only at a distance and for very short moments. "We would be happy of your company, my lord Éomer."

"My lady Lothíriel," he answered in his velvety murmur.

"Don't you two tire of that game?" Éowyn asked irritably.

Éomer grinned at her as he sat down beside me and took my hand under the table as unobtrusively as possible. "Never," he said and caressed the back of my hand with his thumb.

I gasped lightly. _Oh, how I wanted…_

Somehow I managed to smile at him. "Never," I agreed. Then I tried for an impish grin. "Éomer," I whispered.

A bright smile spread across his face. He raised his eyebrows. "Lothíriel," he answered.

Éowyn made a gagging noise.

"Stop that, _léofest sweostor min_," Éomer said. "You are only in a bad mood because your betrothed-to-be isn't at your side. But lo! I come to you as the harbinger of good news! Faramir's duty to observe the proceedings of the wedding are almost over, and he promised me to come hither as soon as he has made adequate security arrangements for the King's and Queen's sleeping quarters… close enough to protect them, far enough away from… _er…_ the scene… to grant the royal couple the desired privacy."

"Then the blood was a fake?" Éowyn asked in a low voice.

Éomer blushed only a little. I saw a twinkle in his eyes that suggested he was thinking about pulling his sister's leg a little more, but in the end he answered honestly, "Of course it was. You don't think Aragorn would subject Arwen to…" The King of Rohan frowned, did not know how to continue and fell silent.

Unnoticed by us, the Lord Steward Faramir had approached and now slid onto the bench next to Éowyn. Éowyn's face lit up like the sun in the morning. Faramir smiled at her, his eyes sparkling with the blue hue of happiness. "Now the King and Queen will have their peace for the night. And tomorrow morning the Prince and I and the other members of the High Council will be presented with the real sheet." Faramir paused. "Or at least another sheet suitably prepared to satisfy old superstitions," he coughed lightly and continued, "Ahem, time-honoured customs of the realm."

Éowyn gasped. I giggled. The men grinned.

Then Éowyn sat up very straight and managed to say in a very prim voice. "And should my lords be talking about such things of carnal nature with ladies present?"

This time I snorted the wine all over the table.

When we finally stopped laughing, Éomer turned to me. "Will you do me the honour of a dance, my lady?"

I smiled at him. "If you show me how…"

His eyes grew darker and deeper as he looked at me with the softest of smiles tugging at his full lips. "You danced so beautifully on the Field of Cormallen."

I laughed softly. "That's not true. You did. I was simply dragged along."

"Oh, no, _that_is not true. Please, my lady, allow me to take you out under the stars and prove to you just how wonderfully you can dance!"

"Very well, my lord, you may try." I allowed him to draw me to my feet.

"But only dance, and nothing else," grumbled a voice from behind me. Sam had left the table of the hobbits and was following us outside.

Éomer smiled at the hobbit. "Rest assured, Master Perian, I will treat the Lady Lothíriel with the utmost respect."

Sam grinned up at Éomer. "I do, my lord, because I have promised the Lady Míriël, who is as kind as she is beautiful, that I will make sure of that."

"Then come along, Lord Samwise," Éomer answered, tightening the hold on my hand.

I squeezed his hand right back.

We left the Hall of Merethrond, and I sighed at the beauty of the night. The Milky Way spread in a thick silver ribbon through the sky above us, the full moon shed a cool, clear light on the white stones of Minas Tirith, making the city glow like a milky crystal. Myriads of stars were blazing in a truly black sky. For a moment I wondered if I had ever seen stars and sky that way on earth. But earth and its skies were so far away that no image or memory would come to me. All over the Citadel, the Tower of Ecthelion and the Place of the Fountains lanterns had been lit, which filled the area with a sparkling light, as if a thousand small stars had come down from the sky to shed their light on the celebration.

Éomer led me to the largest dance floor, which was set at the centre of the Embrasure.

As we entered the dance floor, the musicians – an orchestra from Dol Amroth – switched to a lively reel. Éomer drew me firmly against him, and off we were.

We danced the night away.

In the small hours of the night Éowyn and Éomer showed a gasping audience another Rohirric custom. Rohirrim do not only dance with their horses, they also dance with their swords.

What Éowyn and Éomer showed us was a sword fight turned into a dance, beautiful and deadly. I could not turn my eyes away, although I was gasping and shaking, whenever Éowyn's blade only narrowly missed Éomer's head or arms or legs, or when Éowyn only escaped Éomer's thrusts and lunges by a hair's breadth.

The music, mainly drums and fiddles went faster and faster and faster, until it was impossible to follow the movements of the blades. The blades were shimmering silver trails of light in the darkness.

Then, suddenly, with a deep roll of the drums, the music stopped.

Éowyn and Éomer were standing leaning against each other, left side against left side, their blades pointed straight ahead.

They were sweating, and their hair had burst from their braids, tumbling in damp curls about their faces, their eyes were shining, and they were smiling at each other, affectionate, friendly smiles. Although Éowyn was so much lighter in colour than her brother, there was no mistaking their shared blood as they stood at the centre of the dance floor with their swords raised in salute.

Then they stepped apart, sheathed their swords and bowed to each other. They were grinning happily as they returned to the side of the dance floor, where Faramir and I were waiting for them. Faramir poured large mugs of water for them. Éowyn greedily gulped the water down, then exhaled deeply. "I really have to practice more. You almost had me once or twice, this time."

"You're still one of the best, _sweostor min,_" Éomer said, his voice filled with admiration. "There are not many who can keep up that kind of pace."

"For the life of me, I could not do this," Faramir commented, refilling Éowyn's mug. I think he had gasped just as often as I had during this dangerous dance. Éowyn smiled at him. "I will teach you, if you want me to."

"And you, Lothíriel, would you like to learn that, too?"

I stared at Éomer and gulped nervously. "I think I will content myself with learning ordinary dances for the time being."

"I would make sure that no harm comes to you," he said and winked at me.

"And would you make sure that no harm comes to you either? That I would not accidentally skewer you?" I retorted.

"Oh, yes, I would," he assured me. "That wouldn't be much fun, would it?"

"No, it wouldn't," I gasped, disconcerted by his closeness, the wonderful male smell of his sweat mingled with some kind of spicy perfume and the scent of leather from his tunic.

_Oh, how I wanted…_

Someone cleared his throat. It was an effort to turn away from Éomer. Sam was glaring at the man. Éomer did not look really pleased at this interruption. Éowyn sniggered.

_Oh, how I wanted to wring someone's neck right now._

We returned to the Hall of Merethrond for a bowl of hot, spicy soup and another jug of red wine shared between us. As the night went by, we found ourselves at a table with Elladan, Elrohir, Legolas and Gimli and the hobbits, talking about the past, the present and the future until the sun shone in brilliant colours of red and pink and golden through the high windows of the Hall of Merethrond.

******ooo**

I never knew how I returned to our white villa in the sixth circle of the city. But that was where I woke early in the evening of the first day of July, 3019.

I woke with a slight headache, and sadly, alone.

I washed and dressed in one of the outfits of a trouser, shirt and tunic the Lady Darla had fashioned for me. The clothes fit perfectly, and they were held in beautiful green and golden-brown colours that did wonders for the shade of my hair and the green hints in the general muddiness of my eyes. I tied my hair into a tight bun at the nape of my neck. I really would have to cut my hair some time soon. Or at least a part of it. No matter what was considered fashionable in either Gondor or Rohan, it was growing simply too long and too thick to really do anything with it anymore. From somewhere outside I heard the faint sound of singing and music. As I entered the living room, I found Legolas and Gimli in front of the fireplace. The fire had been rebuilt and was burning merrily. Outside the sun was already sinking towards the western horizon. For a moment I stared at the elf and the dwarf.

I thought I had seen them sitting and talking exactly like that when I had finally gone to bed in the morning. But my memory was kind of hazy.

"Have you two been to bed at all?" I asked finally.

"No, my lady," Gimli said cheerfully. "Anything under three days and three nights of feasting and frolicking is not a wedding, but a funeral. _Tírithel_'s on the dinner table; get it and sit down with us."

Legolas only smiled.

I did not need to be told twice. I took a large cup of _tírithel_, added an almost indecent amount of honey and sat down in an easy chair next to Gimli. I curled up in a comfortable cross-legged position. "So, what's up? Any news from Aragorn and Arwen?"

Gimli sniggered. To my surprise Legolas coloured in a bright pink shade, right up to the tips of his pointy ears.

"My spies," Gimli said, clearing his throat and pointedly ignoring the murderous looks thrown at him by Legolas, "my spies have told me that around eleven o'clock this morning, Aragorn and Arwen emerged for a short time from their quarters, looking _wan_ and _pale_. They were seen taking a large breakfast with lots of eggs and passion fruits. Upon having consumed this breakfast, they returned to their sleeping quarters and have not been seen again since. But my informants have let me know that the guards of the royal apartments have asked for ear plugs."

I burst out laughing. Legolas glared at me. For the first time I wondered if the Prince of Mirkwood was possibly still a virgin. He was not married, that much I knew. And, wait – among the elves sexual intercourse sealed the marriage. No sex without marriage, that was their custom, wasn't it?

No wonder he blushed like a school-boy at Gimli's lewd jokes.

"Well, it's time Aragorn gets a little of this and a little of that and some relaxation," I commented.

"Not too much relaxation, though," Gimli put in. "The Lady Arwen would not like that, I think."

Legolas clenched his teeth. "You should not speak so disrespectfully of the Queen."

"We did not want to imply any disrespect, Legolas. It's only… Humans are like that… easy prey for primitive desires," I could not continue and started laughing again, Gimli hollering along with me.

Legolas raised his eyebrows at us. "And dwarves, too, apparently."

"Very primitive," Gimli admitted chuckling. "Really, Legolas, you should get yourself a bride one of these days."

The smile disappeared from the elf's face. A deep sadness shone in his eyes, mingled with a desperate, painful longing. "Not here, my friend Gimli. My days on these shores are numbered. Now there can be no more life built here for me, since I have heard the call of the sea."

Looking at his friend, all levity drained from the dwarf's face. "I'm sorry, Legolas."

The elf sighed. "That's alright. My heart was never called by love. Perhaps some day in fair Aman my time will come."

I had only one thought about this. But I kept it a very, very small thought. _Damn those interfering busy-bodies of Valar…_

For a moment silence filled the room.

"Did anyone see Lord Elrond after whatever happened during the ceremony?"

I asked without looking at anyone.

"After the Valar withdrew their grace from the Lady Arwen, you mean?" Legolas asked. There was a distinct note of bitterness to his tone. Then I had not imagined it.

"Yes, that's what I mean," I replied. _I could have stayed in a world where God for the most part is an abstract concept carried in your heart…_

"No, I don't think so. He would not have wanted to mar the feast with his grief. He will have gone walking somewhere under the stars," Legolas answered.

Gimli did not say anything.

"Is there anything one could do to comfort him?" I asked the elf.

Legolas gave me a sad smile. "You have a kind heart, my lady Lothíriel. But no, here in Arda nothing will comfort the Lord Elrond anymore. However, he will not linger here for much longer. Methinks the ship is already on its way to bear him hence… taking the Straight Way across the tides of time towards Aman, the Blessed Realm. There he will be reunited with his wife, the Lady Celebrían, and all sorrow will be healed."

"Do you really believe that?" Gimli asked in his gruffest voice.

The dwarf did not seem to trust the Valar and their western paradise.

Legolas smiled at his friend. "Yes, Gimli, my doubting friend, I do believe that. Perhaps one day you will see that for yourself."

Gimli frowned at the elf. "Perhaps." He did not sound convinced.

I did not know what to think.

I was here for good, so I would have to come to terms with the Valar as my Gods, and the One, Eru Ilúvatar as the One God and Creator of all of Eä and Arda and Aman. I had not given that much thought, although I had for sure prayed more in Middle-earth than I had ever prayed on Earth. Back on Earth I had always liked the concept of Gods with actual faces and bodies taking a real interest in your life. Now I was not so sure.

Although Arwen and Aragorn were happy in their shared love, the abrupt way the Valar had taken away her immortality and elvish grace yesterday seemed cruel and inhuman to me.

I also could not understand why they did not want the elves in Middle-earth, where we humans lived. Were the Secondborn so much inferior to their elvish children in the Valar's opinion? And what of the love some elves might feel for Arda, where they might have been born or at least lived and been happy for thousands of years? Or the friendships that existed between elves and men or elves and dwarves? Did those feelings count for nothing?

I remembered what Gandalf had told me, when I had asked him about Eru and the Valar.

_"Eru takes the long range view of things, and the Valar, well, they cannot understand the theme of the Ainulindalë that created the children of Ilúvatar, either the Firstborn or the Secondborn._

I had replied, "And that is meant to comfort me how?"

Gandalf had smiled and replied, "That was not intended to comfort you."

_Right._

I hope Eru knows what the Valar are doing.

I hope Eru knows what He is doing.

And I hope they don't mind me asking stupid questions and being annoyed at them.

_Eru and all the Valar, please don't take offence._

_I'm still new here, and don't know how things are done around here._

Perhaps it was only my imagination.

But I thought I heard a female voice inside my head that was not at all like the obnoxious little voice of reason and conscience that is sometimes arguing my actions.

It was a very bright and very clear voice. Not the kind of voice I would think of as a figment of imagination.

_"We never take offence at compassion, Lothíriel."_

Perhaps that was the voice of a Vala.

_Perhaps not._

But if it was, why couldn't it – he – she – have told me something about my future, or given me some advice about how to handle things here and now, for example how to tell Éomer King where I come from and that I am not exactly a virgin?


	55. Certain Rash Words

**55. Certain Rash Words**

The celebrations surrounding Aragorn's and Arwen's wedding went on for several days and nights. In the end even Gimli was inclined to agree that it was one swell party.

On the eleventh of July we were invited to have dinner with the King and Queen. We: that was the fellowship, Éomer, Éowyn, Faramir, Prince Imrahil and his lady, Lord Elrond, his sons, Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel.

That's what Kings and Queens call a small, intimate dinner party. Only twenty-two persons.

I guess I will never get used to the standards of Gondorian or Rohirric nobility. But I won't complain. I was invited and I was allowed to sit with Éomer.

During the last few days, I had been so irritated at the way things between us were not going anywhere at all that I had for a time entertained the thought that perhaps it was, after all, only a passing fancy.

Those thoughts had lasted approximately two seconds into the evening. While the others had gathered around Arwen under the White Tree, listening to a song from Valinor, Éomer had led me to the Embrasure. I was leaning against the smooth white stone of the wall that still held the heat of the waning summer's day, looking straight ahead so I would not experience the feeling of vertigo I got from looking straight down from heights of more than a few feet. Éomer stood as close to me as was possible without catching either Sam's or the Lady Míriël's attention. I felt his strong, muscular body against my left side, and my heart galloped away like a wild horse. I could not help but inhale the spicy scent of him, this strange mixture of some kind of spicy, herbal perfume or powder he was fond of, along with the deeply male scent of his body, a small whiff of horse and leather. And as I did so, my stomach lurched wildly with desire.

If you want to say in German that you can't stand someone, you say _"ich kann ihn nicht riechen"_, that is more or less _"I can't stand his smell"_. And here I was reacting to someone's personal scent just as strongly as this expression implies, only in the opposite direction. I felt positively _high_ on Éomer.

I had never realized just how important your personal smell is back on earth, where everyone takes pains not to have any personal fragrance at all. I am not talking about the way we stank on our quest, when we could not wash at all for days, though you get used even to that kind of stink. No, what I am talking about is the subtle presence of a personal smell of your body when you have only an ewer of hot water a day to wash, and a bath only once a week. It's not a stink; it's not gross. But it's always there. You get so that you associate his or her personal fragrance as much with the respective person as the colour of their hair or eyes.

Éomer's smell made me lose my mind.

_Oh, Gods, how I wanted to…_

And then _he_ had the nerve to inhale deeply and whisper to me in this dark voice like velvet and mead, "What is this perfume you wear? It makes my head spin, my Lady, this mixture of spices and flowers that clings to your steps."

I was wearing as much perfume as he did. A spot of perfume that had worn off completely during the heat of the day. Could he read my mind or did he delight in the perfume of my very body as much as I did in his?

I released a shuddering breath.

_How about we do it here and now?_

I contented myself with a shaky reply. "So do you, my lord."

_Enough to rip off your clothes this very minute or throw me down the Embrasure, driven into insanity by sexual frustration…_

When a rough voice interrupted our shared sighs, I did not know if I wanted to strangle Gimli or thank him for preventing a scandal.

"What's so interesting down there that you keep staring into the air for half an hour?" the dwarf asked.

We turned around, Éomer conveniently forgetting to remove his arm and thus coming to hug me against him. _Oh, bliss! Oh, sweet torture!_

"It was not half an hour," Éomer said. Gimli grinned pertly up at us. I bet this was Sam's idea. _Grrr…_

Éomer's gaze drifted back to the fountain and the White Tree.

Galadriel sat next to Arwen and was singing with her to a melody the young queen was strumming on her silver lap harp. It was a lilting happy tune sang in Quenya, as far as I could tell. Aragorn curled his hand around the slender stem of the tree in a gesture that was almost a caress, while his eyes filled with love at the sight of his wife playing and singing under the drifting white and pink petals of the new White Tree.

The others were sitting and lying about on the lawn, dreaming away or lost in admiration of the two women.

It was as if an impressionist painting had come alive, filled with warmth, music and the sweet fragrance of blossoms and summer sun. Golden hair mingled with almost black tresses, piercing turquoise met a softer silver gaze as they sang together, Galadriel's voice a cool, clear alto, and Arwen's an unexpected light, pure soprano. Galadriel held the high beauty of heaven, Arwen the sweetness of a fleeting summer evening. Each woman was beyond beautiful in her own, special way. Here for once were elvish and mortal beauty joined in harmony.

I sighed deeply, wishing I had the talent to paint once more. My sigh was echoed by Éomer and Gimli. I turned my head and smiled at Éomer. He looked into my eyes, and once again we were lost in one another. I felt my body tighten with desire, and for me the most beautiful sight on the Place of the Fountain today was neither elvish nor mortal queen, but a man with golden and dun hair curling down to his shoulder, a soft, well-kept beard and deep, dark eyes with amber flecks. I felt Éomer's hold around my waist tighten.

I felt like shouting for joy. He's really feeling the same! He's really, truly in love with me!

"Now, master dwarf, there is an issue between us that is still unresolved," Éomer said sternly, looking down at the dwarf. "Gimli, son of Glóin, do you have your axe ready?"

Gimli tilted his head back and glared at Éomer, but the corners of his mouth were quivering with laughter. "Nay, my lord," he replied. "But I can speedily fetch it, if there be need of it."

"You shall be the judge of that," Éomer answered. "But to the matter at hand," he nodded at the elvish and the mortal queen under the White Tree, "there are certain rash words concerning the Lady in the Wood that lie still between us. And now I have seen her with my own eyes."

"Well, lord," Gimli said, his voice grim, his hands at his hips. "And what say you now?"

"Alas," replied Éomer in a grave voice. "I will not say that she is the fairest lady that lives."

"Then I must go for my axe," Gimli retorted, frowning at Éomer.

Éomer grinned at the dwarf, undaunted by that threat. "But first I will plead this excuse," Éomer went on. "Had I seen her in any other company, I would have said all that you could wish. But alas! Here I stand and see before me the Lady Galadriel and the Queen Arwen Evenstar, and lo! Another beauty fills my heart, and I hope it will fill it every day of my life, to my very last breath. And I am ready to do battle on my own part with any who deny me."

With that Éomer very decisively turned his back on both elvish and mortal beauty and proceeded to kiss _me_!

At first it was only a soft, warm stroking of lips against lips, but quickly the kiss deepened, and we were drinking each other's desire, the headiest of all wines. We were interrupted by a loud cough. Éomer turned around again, never letting go of me.

There was a very red faced dwarf facing us.

Éomer looked at Gimli with an amused expression on his face. "Well, Gimli, son of Glóin, how are things between us now, shall I call for my sword?"

Gimli shook his head and bowed very low. "Nay, you are excused for my part, lord," he said and smiled at me. "Here you could have chosen the beauty of the Evening or the beauty of the Morning, such as I have done. And I could not have faulted you for choosing the Evenstar over the Dawn. But you choose neither, and instead you reach for the light of Day. May it always be with you, I pray. For the light I have chosen, I fear, will soon pass away."

******ooo**

The evening passed all too soon, filled as it was with delicious food, song and laughter. As the dinner party broke into bits of three or four, sitting and talking or enjoying a walk in the moonlight, I would have liked to sneak away to have a moment or two alone with Éomer.

He had gone out alone "to get some fresh air", giving me one of his special looks as he passed me by. But when I tried to follow him as unobtrusively as possible, I found myself cornered by Éowyn.

I pressed my lips together tightly and tried valiantly to fight down my impatience to get out of the dining hall and to Éomer.

"We have to talk," Éowyn said, drawing me off into a nearby library.

"What about?" I asked apprehensively. I had grown wary of that glint in Éowyn's eyes.

"My brother," she replied. I hung my head and moaned.

"I thought we had already talked about your brother," I told her. "I would rather go and talk _to_ your brother, if you don't mind."

"And what about?" Éowyn demanded. "Have you told him about your background yet?"

I felt my shoulders slump. When and how should I have told Éomer about all of that? We were almost never allowed to be alone! And my tale was truly not one for public consumption!

"When should I have done that?" I asked wearily. "During a long night's drunken celebration? Or with twenty other people within earshot?"

"He has talked to Aragorn and the Prince Imrahil about you," Éowyn explained.

I stared at her. Her explanation did not mean anything to me.

Éowyn sighed. "He wants Aragorn to elevate you to peerage, to make you a high lady of Gondor, so that you might be if not exactly the best match he could make, at least acceptable to the nobles of Rohan."

My heart fluttered madly. He was really, truly serious. He really meant to go through with what he had told me at the Field of Cormallen. He wanted me. For better or worse. Only I was worse, being no lady or princess of either Gondor or Rohan or any allied country. Or a virgin.

"Don't look that frightened," Éowyn ordered. "It would be a good idea, though I personally am in favour of an adoption. If it was not impossible because of Éomer being my brother, I would talk Faramir into adopting you myself. Oh, well. My brother will see to it that you acquire sufficient status so that he can marry you. But as he is getting really serious about it, you should tell him about yourself. My brother does not like it if things are being kept from him. He does not like lies and deceptions."

"I have not lied to him," I said in a very small voice.

"I know you have not," Éowyn agreed, her voice a little softer. "But in not telling him where you come from and how things are with you, he might think that you kept those things from him deliberately. He won't like that."

I sighed. "And when and how do you suggest I tell him?"

Éowyn shrugged. "I am not one for the dance with words. I prefer to dance with sharper blades. I only think you should not wait too long anymore. In a week we will leave for Edoras to bury my uncle. Éomer will be crowned and acclaimed as King of Rohan after the funeral and my betrothal will be announced. I don't think he will want to wait very much longer than this to settle the matter of his own heart."

That would be in a few weeks time. In a month, give or take a few days. I gulped. When and where should I find the opportunity to tell Éomer about where I came from and that I could only offer my love, but not my innocence? And how? How should I find words to tell the truth, which would not make him see me as a slut?

Especially with the memory of _this_ royal wedding…

Arwen was the paradigm of innocence and virginity. She had remained untouched over the course of almost three thousand years! On earth that would equal the span of time between Zarathustra or Ramses III. and the day I had left Erlangen for a holiday jaunt in the Franconian hills. I had not managed keep my virginity intact for even twenty years.

And why did men put so much stock in virginity anyway? My first time had been not much fun either for me or my lover. Good times demand practice. But even thinking that made me feel vaguely immoral.

I sighed again. "Thank you for telling me, Éowyn."

"You are welcome, Lothíriel," the shield-maiden answered. "Now go and find my brother."

I nodded and walked to the door.

******ooo**

To strike the iron while the fire's hot…

_Don't worry, _Gandalf had told me

I went out into the night in search of Éomer and the right words.

I don't know if I managed to find the right words. I did manage to pick the wrong time.

Perhaps there was no right time for this.

******ooo**

I found him at the Embrasure, looking out across the desolate, dry fields of the Pelennor towards the glistening floods of the Anduin. He turned when he heard my steps, and his eyes lit up so brightly that I noticed that even in the darkness of the night with the moon the only light.

"Éomer," I said. "We have to talk."

"Nothing would please me more, my lady, except perhaps to kiss your sweet lips," he answered.

At any other time, I think, I would have swooned with the romance of it. You always wait for a guy in real life to say something like that, but they never do. Now here I was on a moonlit night, with a wonderful man I had fallen in love with, and who had for some bizarre reason fallen in love with me, and he was telling me the most outrageously romantic things, and I could not enjoy it one little bit. Life is cruel.

I sighed. "Éomer, there are things about me that you need to know if there is ever going to be anything between us. Please, can we go somewhere and talk?"

His face fell. His eyes grew cool and apprehensive. "Of course, my lady. But are you sure that you want to be alone with me?"

"I do think that would be better," I replied.

"We can go up into one of the studies in the tower," he suggested. "At this time no one's there."

"Good idea."

Éomer led the way; I followed, feeling sick with nerves.

******ooo**

A short time later, I found myself in a small, wedge shaped study above the quarters of the tower guards. Éomer had lit the fire and a few candles. The three straight walls of the room were lined with bookshelves. Apart from that the room boasted two small tables and four simple wooden chairs.

"What is it that you wish to tell me, my lady?" Éomer asked me from across the table.

I think I knew even then that this was the wrong approach. But it was too late to back off now.

_Where to begin?_ In the end I simply blurted out my story. All of it.

"I was born in the year 1980 in Germany, in a town called Erlangen. My mother called me Lothíriel after a book that she loved. In that world it is a book of fairy tales. Tales about a world threatened by an evil enemy, a world where good may still triumph over evil. This world. This Middle-earth. Arda."

I paused. Éomer looked shocked. _Right._

"In the world where I come from, marriage is not what it is here. Many people have relationships and children without being married at all."

"Why are you telling me this?" Éomer asked.

"Because you have to know where I come from, how I came to be here, my background. So you can know all of who I am," I explained.

"Don't I know who you really are?" Éomer asked again, his voice suddenly cold.

_That hurt._

"Yes, and no. Look, it's difficult. Please, let me try and explain."

He nodded silently.

"My mother married only after I was already three years old. And she did not marry my father."

"Did he leave her? How could he!" Éomer's eyes started to blaze. I was almost glad that he would get angry on my behalf.

"No, I just told you. Where I come from, it is not as it is here. You don't have to marry. You can have children and live together without marriage. No one will look down upon a woman who is alone with a child. You marry for love, you marry for money, you marry for the same reasons as people marry here, but you don't have to. It's perfectly normal not to.  
My mother –" I clenched my teeth. Why was this part still so difficult? After all, I had grown up with a loving step-father, who had done everything for me. Why did this still matter?

"I don't think she knew who my father actually was. She was seeing several men when I was conceived."

Éomer stared at me with horror in his eyes. "Your mother was a whore?"

_I would not be ashamed for my mother.  
I would not be ashamed for my mother! _

Hell, I had spent _years_ being ashamed and feeling that I had to excuse my mother's eccentric ways to my friends. I had spent years coming to terms with the fact that her refusal to bow to the morals and rules of society did not make her a slut, nor did my refusal to live the way she had lived make me a bad daughter. And after all, she had married and become the wife of a respected lawyer. And I knew that she loved my step-father very much, as he loved her. They were faithful to each other. They were devoted to each other. Their marriage was one of the few I had known back on earth that had been really working. Strange as that may sound.

"My mother was not a whore. She was a student at a good university and enjoying her freedom. Perhaps a little too much. But as I am glad to be alive, I don't blame her for not being cautious enough with her pill."

"Pill?" Éomer stared at me as if he was seeing someone he had never seen before.

_Oh, this was going so wrong…_

"A medication that keeps women from conceiving a child. So you can have sex without consequences. She did not take it regularly. I am the consequence. She did not mind. She was quite wealthy and independent. So she had me, and she said I was a dream come alive, and therefore she called me after a book that – in her opinion – was filled with dreams. But in Germany, at least at that time, it was not common practice to name children 'Lothíriel' or anything strange. So she had to go to court to be allowed to name me 'Lothíriel'. She had a very good lawyer."

_Just get everything over with quickly._ I went on hastily.

"Ahem. Someone to argue her position according to the laws of my country. Laws – lawyer. Well, the lawyer fell in love with my mother, they married. I grew up as his child. He's been my Dad in every way that really matters. I went to school and grew up. Now, there are more things than that which are different between here in the world where I grew up. We don't have kings or queens who rule our countries. Some countries still have them, but only as figureheads, for sentimental and representative reasons. But they don't have any political power anymore. I grew up in a world where almost everyone has to work for their living, even the heirs of what noble lords and ladies we had in earlier centuries, men and women alike. Women do whatever men can do, much as it is among the elves. I studied law in my hometown, to become a lawyer like my Dad, or perhaps a judge or a teacher of law."

I found that I could not look at Éomer. I had never felt ashamed that I had fallen in love, that I had made love. There was nothing to be ashamed about. I gulped and rushed on.

"When I was nineteen, I met a boy, a fellow student, and we fell in love, and we had sex. But then he got the opportunity to go to another, a better university and he moved away. Life went on, and when I was twenty-three, I met another man, a law student of my own age. I thought I was in love. He thought he was in love. It was nice enough for a time. But it wasn't enough. I did not really love. Not for keeps. So we broke it up and went our ways. In the summer 2004 I was studying for my final exams when I realized that –"

"You are a whore?" Éomer stared at me, his face, his eyes, cold and hostile.

I felt myself go cold. My voice was trembling a little, but at least it was still calm.

I was not crying, although I wanted to.

"I am most certainly not a whore. I told you that it's perfectly normal for a girl where I come from to have more than one lover before she finds the one to love for her lifetime and for marriage. I had two lovers. That's all. Where I come from, that's absolutely normal. That's even rather conservative. Now, shall I go on?"

It hurt so much to hear him call me and my mother a whore. But what had I expected? Here, every girl who was not of low birth was a virgin until the first night of marriage. How should he, a man of a medieval society, be able to accept me, a woman with the experiences of growing up in a wealthy, industrialized country of the twenty-first century?

He nodded. But he was so cold and distant that I shivered involuntarily.

"Now. I had not felt good about my life for some time. Somehow I never felt that I belonged. I always felt… homeless. Without roots. Lonely. With no course for my life. I was studying for my final exams, and suddenly I realized that I hated what I was doing. I realized that I had no idea how I wanted my life to be. I realized that I had never taken the time to think about how I wanted my life to be. I realized that I needed time to think. I can think best when I'm alone, and outdoors, walking, hiking. So I packed my backpack and simply went on a holiday of hiking in a beautiful hill country close to the town where I grew up. One night, I met an old tramp on a hill, and we talked about my name, and I told him about the books I was named for, and he…"

I told Éomer everything. I did not try to make things sound prettier than they were. I had not left out that even in my own world, it was not normal not to know about one's father. I had not left out, how I had simply abandoned my studies more or less on a whim. I did not leave out Boromir. I did not leave out telling Éowyn and Faramir.

When I finally ended, my voice was hoarse.

The silence was thick in the room.

Éomer stared at me, visibly making an effort to gather his thoughts.

"You were right," he finally said. "I don't know you at all. Two lovers there, one lover here, and a whole life you never told me about. I don't know you at all."

I felt tears well up in my eyes. "But that's not true. You do know me. You only did not know about my mother and my father, and where I came from. You did know about who I am."

"And your father has nothing to do with who you are? Your lovers have nothing to do with who you are? Did you think you could seduce me? Did you think you could blackmail me? Did you think you could make me the laughing stock of all of Rohan and Gondor?" He was losing his cold distance. His eyes were blazing with fury. He was shouting by the time he reached the last question.

"No," I said in a trembling voice. "I thought that I had fallen in love for the first time in my life. That everything else had been only make-believe, but not real. Not real at all. I thought that I had found a home here, a place where I belong. I thought that I had found true friends who would love me for who I am and not for outward appearances."

"Being a slut or a virgin is hardly an 'outward appearance', now, is it?" Éomer asked.

"I have merely behaved the way I was raised."

"Like a slut. With no father to call her his own blood."

"My father is an honourable man. A wonderful father. And blood has nothing to do with that." I was getting mad.

But that had not been the point of this conversation. All of this had not been the point of this conversation at all.

"Éomer, don't you see that I simply behaved according to the rules of the society I grew up in? Where I grew up, virginity is no big deal. Most girls simply want to get rid of it quickly and have some fun. But that does not make them or me sluts or whores. If you are unfaithful or dishonest in your relationships, that makes you a slut. If you take money or other remuneration for sex, that makes you a whore. Falling in love twice, and being there for a man who needed me, that does not make me a slut or a whore. And you can't make me feel bad about it because it was not wrong. I did nothing wrong. The only thing I did wrong was not to tell you all of this when we first met. But tell me, would you have understood it any better if I had told you where I come from, and how I grew up weeks ago? And I did tell you everything before…"

"Before what?" Now he was cold again.  
How could he do that, scream and shout one minute and be so cold and withdrawn the next? "Before you asked me…"

"Before I asked you what?"

How could he be so cruel? How could he not see past this overrated issue of a little piece of skin between my legs? Had I really kept so much from him that he had not known me at all?

"Before I asked you what?"

"Before you asked me to marry you," I said and glared at him. "I know you thought about that. You sister told me that you were considering this. And because I love you, I have told you everything there is to know about me. Now. Before you could ask. Or do anything else."

"Oh, thank you so much," he spat out. "After weeks and weeks!"

This was getting ridiculous.

"Would it have helped, if I had told you all that to begin with?" I asked again, feeling my lips trembling with tears of anger and horror.  
Had I unknowingly destroyed anything that could be there between us by waiting too long to tell him?

"You told my sister," he hissed.

I closed my eyes.

"You told Faramir, for the Valar's sake!"

_And Galadriel knows about it, too._

I felt my self-control slipping. Tears were running down my cheeks. But I had to finish this conversation.

"I had to," I tried to explain. "I owed that to Boromir, to tell his brother the truth about his death. And Éowyn, she will marry Faramir, for heaven's sake. Should I have told her to go away? And she is my friend!"

"That I can hardly believe. My sister is a maiden of virtue."

"And why should I be less virtuous only because I am not a virgin anymore?" I screamed at him.

"Because you did not tell me who you are!" he yelled back. "How can I ask you to marry me, if you have deceived me from the day we met? How can you be anything to me, if I never really knew you at all?"

He had risen to his feet and shoved back his chair so hard that it fell over with a loud clattering sound.

"But you do know me," I wailed.

I had the feeling that my world was falling apart under my hands. I was looking at Éomer with a strange, dazed feeling of disbelief. I had thought that he might be a little shocked or even angry, but I had not expected him to turn this into an issue of trust and honesty.  
"You know everything I have done since I came to Middle-earth. Doesn't that count for something? You have spent so much time with me. Don't you feel you know me for myself? At least a little bit?"

"No," he shouted. "No! At the moment I don't think that I ever knew you at all."

"But how could I have told you all that? How was I to know you would even believe one word of what I said! You have to admit that apart from being contrary to your customs the story of my background sounds just a tack fantastic, doesn't it? AND WHY THE HELL SHOULD IT BE SO IMPORTANT IF I AM A VIRGIN OR NOT ANYWAY? AND ANYWAY; YOU NEVER ASKED!" I cried._ How could this evening turn out this way, how could this evening, how could…_

"But you told Faramir. You told my sister. And yes, IT DOES SOUND ABSOLUTELY RIDICULOUS! AND IT IS IMPORTANT THAT YOU ARE A VIRGIN! BECAUSE I WON'T MARRY A LIAR AND A WHORE!"

I was trembling all over my body. My voice was shaking when I finally replied. "I am neither a liar nor a whore. And if you have not realized who I am during the last weeks, than I probably was mistaken in thinking that you might love me. And that I might love you."

"Yes," Éomer said. "You were mistaken. I was mistaken. Everything between us was and is a mistake. There can be nothing between us. Go and find yourself another 'lover' to deceive!

But – keep – the – hell – away – from – my – sister!"

I turned and ran.

******ooo**

And I kept running. I was crying as I ran.

Had I really lied to him? Had I really deceived him? Had I never shown him who I really am?

When I reached the stables, I had suddenly only one thought.

_I have to get away from here as fast and as far away as possible._

I saddled Mithril and galloped down to the Great Gates before I had the time to think twice.

******ooo**

The guards at the Great Gates were surprised that I wanted to go for a ride in the middle of the night, but in the end they let me go.

I raced around the walls of Minas Tirith and to the southern gate of the Rammas Echor. Only when the Rammas Echor was already far behind me, and I was galloping westwards at the feet of the Ered Nimrais, I began to think where I could go from here.

Leaving so precipitously, I had taken neither food nor a cloak or a blanket with me.

And where could I go?

Éomer would tell everyone about… me.

That I had no father. That I was no virgin. That I was a liar.

Where could I go?

******ooo**

In the end I simply allowed Mithril to run as fast and as far as she wanted. And Mithril _wanted_ to run! She had not liked being cooped up in the stable for such a long time, with only short rides in the near area of Minas Tirith during the last two weeks.

I was already halfway to Tarnost when I realized where I was going, and that I might still have a friend there who would perhaps not turn me away. A friend, and I felt hot with shame at the thought, whom I should have gone to weeks ago when I had not been able to deliver her letter to her husband because he had died on the Fields of the Pelennor.

I started crying again. How could I have not gone to Sorcha at once? How could I go to her now?

But I had nowhere else to go, and I could not bear to even think about how the others – Sam, for instance, or Míriël, or Arwen – how they would look at me and turn away, thinking that I had lied to them, too, and that I was not fit to keep their company, and so I kept going.

When Mithril finally slowed down around noon the following day, on the banks of the river Raín, I was so tired and exhausted that I simply slid down from Mithril's back and curled up on the spot in a clump of dry grass.

I felt like an empty, hollow shell with no sense of myself left at all. How could I fall asleep, knowing that he thought… Knowing that I would never…

My eyes closed, weighed down by sheer exhaustion, and I fell asleep with Mithril snorting comfortingly against my neck.

**oooOooo**

* * *

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Yours  
JunoMagic


	56. A Pot of Tea

**56. A Pot of Tea**

When I woke, it was evening. The first silver stars were shining in the eastern sky, and the setting sun was obscured by dark clouds. My head was aching and my eyelids were swollen and itchy from the salt of my tears.

Mithril was grazing peacefully a few feet away.

Then the memory of last night came back to me, and I promptly started crying again. How could he think that I had tried to deceive him? How could he think that I had lied to him?

Oh, if I only had kept quiet! If I only had not listened to Éowyn!

_If you had not told him yesterday, but waited until after he asked you, how much better do you think the conversation would have gone?_

Back was the voice of reason ridiculing me at the back of my mind. I clenched my teeth and hit the grass with my fists. It did not help. I still felt like my heart was breaking. Only now my hands were aching, too, and were covered in greenish-black spots. I gulped down my tears.

I rose to my feet and walked over to Mithril.

"Oh, Mimi," I whispered and leaned against her, rubbing her back. The horse snorted softly, looking at me with her calm eyes, as if she understood exactly how I was feeling. I sighed deeply. Then I unsaddled Mithril, brushed her coat with the saddle blanket and cleaned her hooves with a small branch. Afterwards I went down to the river and splashed some water in my face and drank a few handfuls of the cool, clear water of the mountain stream. Then I saddled Mithril and let her run again.

I let her run through the night.

But even though the beautiful Meara was fast as the wind, she was not faster than my thoughts. And my thoughts were bleak. It had only been a dream. A beautiful, beautiful dream, but only a dream. Only a dream. I had never believed in true love or love at first sight anyway.

We were just too different. I could never be a queen. In real life such things never happen anyway. That's stuff for fairy tales and fantasies. He should marry someone like the dead Lothíriel. A lady of noble birth. A virgin. Someone who would never keep anything from him.

I should have told him, I thought bitterly. I should have told him at once.

But the time had never been right!

_Oh, and yesterday evening it had been right?_

But I am not a whore.

I am not a slut.

_Really?_

******ooo**

I was glad that I did not need to cross the bridge over the Ethring river. I left the road a mile or two before the bridge, giving the guards of the bridge a wide birth. I only returned to the road quite a bit south of the bridge and was very grateful indeed that no one was on the road at this hour of the night. I rode along the banks of the Ethring like a shadow, swift and barely visible in the night.

As I galloped towards Tarnost, another dawn was colouring the eastern sky. And a dawn of _pretty_ colours, too; as if to spite me. I did not want to stop. I wanted to keep running, I wanted to escape those painful words and accusations, the feeling of failure. But Mithril was getting tired, and I had not had anything to eat or drink for a day.

"A message for Mistress Sorcha," I called out to the guards; Tarnost was a small town, they would know her. And they did. I could see a hint of surprise and unasked questions in their faces, but they let me pass. This time I rode Mithril up into the city.

I knocked at Sorcha's door, afraid she would be gone, afraid she would not let me in. But she opened the door and even smiled at me. "You did not have to come, Lady Lothíriel. I know he's dead. The messenger came only a day after you had left."

"I'm so sorry," I managed to say. "I'm so sorry."

Then I started sobbing.

"Tomil, would you see to that horse!" Sorcha called out to a small boy who was standing nearby and gawking at the strange lady crying on the Mistress Sorcha's doorstep. The boy eagerly came forwards. Mearas do that to a person. You fall in love with them at first glance.

And their riders, too, I thought bitterly, remembering how beautiful Éomer had looked, up on his Hiswa.

"Now, come in and tell me what has happened to you, Lothíriel." Sorcha led me into her kitchen. She sat me on a wooden bench, much as you sit down a child that has fallen and scraped a knee. She poured me a cup of hot tea and put a large spoonful of honey into it, and another cup without honey for herself. Then she sat down on a stool next to me and looked at me with worried green eyes. "Now, tell me."

I started at the end of the story, which promptly made me cry again, then I tried the middle, got lost, cried again and started again, only to come to a halt after a few sentences, not knowing how to continue.

Finally Sorcha shook her head. "You're in a rare state, Lothy. That way I'm gonna make neither head nor tail of your plight. Come here and just cry yourself out. And then you go and get some sleep. When you are yourself again, you can tell me about this Éomer character and how he gets the idea that you would have lied to him."

She rose to her feet, sat down on the bench next to me and embraced me, and then she simply held me close and let me cry.

Sorcha put me to bed in the small chamber where I had stayed that night months ago when I had ridden for Minas Tirith and the Field of Cormallen. I did not think that I would be able to sleep. But exhausted as I was from riding fast for two nights in a row with no food and drink and from the tears and the turmoil in my heart, I quickly succumbed to sleep.

When I finally woke, it was evening again. Outside a heavy summer rain was pouring down, echoing my feelings. Sorcha had already put Solas to bed when I came down into the kitchen. I felt more than a little embarrassed and awkward about the whole situation. But Sorcha acted as if there was nothing unusual about my presence in her kitchen, or about my rather blotchy appearance.

"Sit down, I have some stew ready." Sorcha set a full bowl of stew and a slice of grey bread in front of me. "Cooked in good dark ale, should go down a right treat, it should."

I ate slowly. Although I was ravenous with hunger, I had no appetite at all. When I had finished, Sorcha poured us large cups of tea. She lit a candlestick in the embers of the hearth and put it at the centre of the table. For a while we sat in silence, sipping our tea.

"I am sorry that I did not come back at once to tell you about your husband," I said. "I should have."

Sorcha shrugged. "What could you have told me that the messenger did not say? He came to Tarnost the day after you had left. I already knew that my Fyn was a good man and brave before he ever went to fight the enemy. But now tell me what's got you so upset that you are haring through the country all on your own and with no gear at all like a stupid girl."

I tried a smile, but it turned awry. "I guess I am a stupid girl, Sorcha."

And then I told my story for the third time, including the disastrous conversation in the Tower of Ecthelion.

When I had finished, Sorcha looked at me with very round eyes. "That is sure some story. Are you sure you aren't a travelling story teller? You can make quite a good living with such tales."

When I inhaled and opened my mouth to swear a thousand holy oaths that every word I had said was true, she simply smiled at me and laid a calming hand on my arm. "I believe you, Lothíriel. This story is much too crazy for someone to make it up. And running away like you did is much too stupid for it not to be true. You know, you should stop this running away of yours. You are making rather a habit of it, and it's not a good habit to acquire."

I hung my head. She was right. Running away is generally not a good idea.

"Oh, sweetie, don't hang your head like that. If you're in love, you can't help it but behave in a bit of a hare-brained way. All of us do that. More than once. Love makes a fool of you. That's the way it is."

"I feel so horrible. My Mama may be weird, but she's not a whore, and neither am I!" I rubbed at my burning eyes furiously. Sorcha stared at me for a long moment, and I could not tell at all what she was thinking. Was she shocked? Or just mulling over what I had told her? But before I could say anything else, she replied. "No," she said soothingly. "That she isn't, and that you aren't. Your background may be… strange. But anyone could see that you are a good lass. Especially after all you have done!" Sorcha shook her head. "But the noble lords and ladies are strange that way. We, we ordinary folk that is, we don't hold with such kafuffle. Some girls are still virgins when they marry and then some aren't. 'Tis right and proper, mind, to be a virgin; but it's not the only thing that makes you a virtuous woman. But the rich and the gentry don't see beyond the surface. _And why not?_ They can afford it! Virginity does not make a good marriage. Well –" she hesitated, and there was too much sympathy in her eyes. "Maybe it's different for kings. But I have been married. And what made my marriage, were different things, even though I was a virgin on my wedding night. 'Tis love, my dear, and faith and a lot of patience that makes a marriage. But I think it was not so much that you aren't a virgin or what kind of blood is in your background. I think your Éomer, he really thought you had kept from him who you really are on purpose to deceive him in some way. Do you know why he would be so very distrustful?"

I stared at Sorcha. Why would Éomer react so strongly about… Then realization struck.

I gasped. I could have kicked myself. Why had I not taken the time to just think about things?

"Wormtongue," I muttered. "There was a counsellor to the royal family of Rohan who betrayed them to the evil wizard, Saruman, in Isengard. Wormtongue had been promised Éomer's sister as a reward for his treason. Wormtongue almost killed the old king, and he had the king's son betrayed to his death."

I put my face in my hands. Why had I not seen this? Why had I been too blind to see through his words? Suddenly I felt ashamed that I had simply run away, that I had not tried to see things through. I had run away like a love-sick girl. I had run away like a coward.

"Oh, Valar, Sorcha, how can I have been so stupid? And now it's too late!" I moaned.

I had had the chance at something special, at something extraordinary. And now it was gone.

I should have talked to Éomer weeks ago. I should have kept talking. _I should have…_

"Well, what he said to you, that was not really kind. It's quite understandable that you reacted with a little tantrum of your own," Sorcha said soothingly. "By now he will have realized that he really hurt you with his words and that you did not mean to deceive him. He will come and get you. Just you wait. Tomorrow, or the day after. He will come and get you. He would be a fool to let you go."

My heart thumped painfully. I felt my lips quivering as if I was a little child on the verge of tears. "Do you really think so?"

"After what he did earlier that evening? Choosing you above the Queen Evenstar and the Lady of the Wood?" Sorcha looked at me with an incredulous expression on her face. "Now, don't take me wrong, Lothíriel, you are a very, very pretty girl, but…" She simply shook her head at me. Then she smiled again, a very sure smile. "Trust me. He will come for you."

A small spark of hope wanted to flare up in my heart. Then I realized that no one would know where I had gone.

"They don't know where I am," I said. Then I made a decision. I jumped up. "I will have to go back. I will have to go back and ask his forgiveness. A new chance. Now. At once."

Sorcha again shook her head at me and pulled me back down on the bench. "You will do know such thing. Sure, you made a mistake. But he made a mistake, too. You don't call your betrothed a liar or – whatever. And they are warriors and rangers, that noble folk at Minas Tirith. They will find you here, if their skill's worth a grain of salt. Might take them a day longer, perhaps."

She smiled at me suddenly, deeply delighted. "You will be a queen, Lothíriel. And you will be a good queen. And that's that. Now it's high time that you start behaving like a queen."

"And how does one behave if one wants to be a queen?" I asked shakily.

"For one thing, you don't run anywhere. To or from. And although it might have been wiser to tell him about your origins earlier, or tell him in the presence of a trusted chaperone – for example the Lady of Dol Amroth…" Sorcha raised an eyebrow at me. I only groaned. "Anyway, you did not leave it too late. You did nothing wrong. Well, not much anyway," she qualified.

"Do you really think…?" I trailed off helplessly.

"Yes, I do," Sorcha said firmly.

I promptly started crying again. Sorcha patted my back until I had calmed down.

Then she made us a new pot of tea.

"I have not even asked," I started hesitantly after I had finally calmed down. "How are you? And Solas?"

Sorcha sighed, her green eyes clouding over. She put down her cup in a very careful movement. "I am fine. She is fine. We have still a little money left. Put aside for hard times. And I have my work. I'm a bit of a dressmaker, you know. We'll get by. Perhaps some day there'll be someone again."

She sighed. Then she looked at me again, very calmly. "Tell me again, what did that captain say?"

"He said that your husband fought valiantly. He said that he died as a hero. He said that all of the company were proud to have known your husband," I replied. I wished I could tell her more. Sorcha downed her cup of tea. Then she looked into her cup for a long moment. Then she sighed again. A deep, sad sigh that went through her entire body. "I bet they say that about all dead soldiers."

We sat in the candle light in the silent kitchen. We drank our tea without speaking. Then we just sat there, in silence. We sat there and stared into our tea cups. We stared into our empty cups for a long time, as if we were trying to find the answer to all our questions in the dregs at the bottom of the cups.

Why did Fynbar of Tarnost have to die on the Fields of the Pelennor? Why did Éomer survive? Why did I have to fall in love with Éomer? Why did I have to meet Boromir first?

But the tea leaves at the bottom of our cups were only wet and black and muddy, and there were no answers to be had there.

Sorcha finally raised her head and gave me a small, lopsided smile. "How about another pot of tea? And I tell you how I met Fyn, and how he wooed me, and how he loved me. How little Solas was born, and how he came up with that silly name."

"I think I would love that," I said and smiled at my friend.

******ooo**

In the morning I felt much better. I woke with the dawn. I rose and washed with cold water from a chipped ewer. Then I went down to the kitchen. Sorcha was already up and baking bread. Solas was fussing. As I knew not enough about things to be of any help in the kitchen, I kept Solas amused while her mother was working.

At noon Sorcha was smiling at me with relief evident on her face. "Solas has been a bit more demanding lately. She misses her Daddy. Thank you for minding her. I would never have gotten all that work done without you. Perhaps I can even get some mending done this afternoon."

We had some boiled cabbage for lunch with another huge pot of tea. Sorcha smiled. "A little luxury even we poor people can afford. And mind, as long as I can hold on to the house, I am positively rich. Affluent. A woman of means." She grinned at me. I don't think that she expected to be able to hold on to her house on her own.

In the afternoon I took Solas to have a look at Mithril, who had been splendidly taken care of by the neighbour's boy, Tomil. When I told him that she was really a royal Meara, he wanted to sleep in the dingy stable. I guess he did.

I returned with Solas to the kitchen and settled down on the floor with her and a few wooden toys, playing with her and listening to her sweet, high voice, talking gibberish but smiling all the time. Now and again I caught a look of Sorcha, a strained, sorrowful look. I realized that Solas must look very much like her Daddy, and that the little girl was taking it very hard that her Daddy was not coming home again. The afternoon passed quickly and quietly. When the sun set, dark clouds drifted down over Tarnost with another rush of summer rain. We had another pot of tea and some of the boiled cabbage in a watery soup for dinner.

"He will come, Lothíriel," Sorcha said as I made my way upstairs to the small chamber where I had slept last night. "He will come."

Will he come? Or will he be too proud? Or does he really think I'm, I'm… I lay awake for most of the night, tossing and turning on that narrow cot. My thoughts were running in circles.

Will he come? Oh, please, God, Valar and Eru, Jesus, Jupiter, anyone!

_Please!_

******ooo**

He did not come the next day either.


	57. Grubby Grub

**57. Grubby Grub**

The next morning dawned bright and sunny. The clouds and rains of the night had been swept away, leaving the air fresh, but soft with humidity.

No traveller had arrived at Tarnost during the night.

Perhaps he would not come.

Perhaps Sorcha was wrong.

But I could not find it in my heart to return to Minas Tirith on my own. At least not now.

I rose with the sun, just as Sorcha did. We had breakfast of thin, grey porridge with the word "honey" whispered above it and a large pot of tea. Poor people's luxury. Right. And for the time being, Sorcha was well off. I had not realized just how well the noble lords and ladies were eating and living in comparison to the common folk.

No one interrupted our breakfast.

He had not come yesterday. Why should he come today?

In four days they had to leave for Edoras. He would have other things to do than trying to find me. The rain would have washed away my tracks. How should he find me here?

Would he really want to find me?

His last words, before I had simply turned and run away, still echoed in my ears.

I put my hands over my ears and swallowed down tears.

Did I really want him to come?

After breakfast I offered to help with Solas again. The little girl seemed to be actually happy to see me. One minute she had been sullen and struggling against her mother's efforts to dress her in a little frock that looked more or less like an old potato sack, the next she waved at me, giggling away. I felt a warm feeling of pride and joy rise up inside me as she greeted me with a crowing laugh.

"Thank goodness!" Sorcha breathed and simply handed me her daughter. "I thought I would never get her dressed. And Mistress Garthen will call on me later with some commissions for children's dresses. I have to take them. She's an important lady here; her husband sits on the Council. I really can't be bothered by Solas' antics today!"

"How about I take care of her?" I offered. "You have given me a place to sleep, food and advice. The least I can do to thank you is to keep this little minx out of your hair so that you can get your business done."

"Would you really?" Sorcha looked at me with relief spreading across her face.

"Why shouldn't I? Solas is sweet, and I am even more useless to a working life here than I am – than I was – to a noble's life in Minas Tirith." That was too true. But I would learn, I thought. I would have to learn. I did not really think he would come. Éowyn, perhaps. Or the Lady Míriël. But I realized that – although I would always want and cherish their friendship – it would not be enough to get me back anywhere near Minas Tirith, as long as **he** was there.

There is such a thing as pride and self-esteem. I would not go back to be pointedly ignored by him. Or worse, to have to stay in my room until he had left Minas Tirith.

"Would you take her outside in the yard?" Sorcha asked. "The weather looks about perfect."

It was something of an effort to smile at my friend. "Sure I will, as I am all thumbs with baking and cooking and don't even start on mending." I shuddered.

"Very well," Sorcha told me. "But I am warning you. It will be dirty work. She loves mud. And after last night, there will be mud."

"Oh, yeah. Icky stuff. Now I **know** that I will enjoy myself." I hunkered down to Solas, suddenly understanding the wisdom in the choice of apparel for the little girl. Panties and an old frock: perfect clothes for getting dirty. "Hey, sweet, how about we bake some dirt cake together?"

Solas grinned at me toothily and answered with a happy, but unintelligible spout of Solas-talk. Sorcha shook her head. "Out with you. To think that once upon a time I had your patience with my child…"

As that would have been the time when her husband was still alive, I did not say anything, only hugged her quickly. Sorcha brushed at her eyes, then shooed us out of the kitchen.

The yard was small. There was a chicken coop, a few beds with vegetables, a gnarled apple tree and… mud. And several puddles of different sizes. Yay! Solas was gone from my hand in an instant and jumping from puddle to puddle, scaring the chickens into retreating to the far corner of the yard. As far as she was concerned, a few puddles and a bit of mud were the best playing ground imaginable.

I kept as far away from the flying mud and splashing water as possible while still being able to watch and applaud. It was so sweet that Sorcha allowed her daughter to get dirty and have fun like that. I smiled to myself. So it was not entirely true that in a medieval society children were not allowed to be children. Or perhaps Sorcha was an exception to the rule. She sure was an exceptional woman.

I could have known. I should have known. Mud. Solas. Me. My clothes. My clean clothes.

No, forget what I mentioned about "clean" clothes. We played _"Fang __mich__ doch"_ that is, "Catch me if you can" around the puddles, when Solas suddenly turned and ran right into my legs. I lost my balance and landed on my butt in the largest puddle. Solas screamed with delight and jumped me. I gasped.

There was mud everywhere.

For a short moment I felt angry. I had tried to keep more or less clean. Now I was about as dirty as one can get. And I did not have a change of clothes. Then Solas' laughter rang out, echoing like the sound of little bells in the yard. I discovered that I was too happy with Solas' laughter to care about clothes or dirt. She had been so sullen and dispirited before she realized that someone would have the time to really play with her yesterday, or this morning, when she had thought, she was all alone with her mother… I was more than happy to see her smile and hear her giggle now.

So I simply tickled her belly and grinned at her.

"Look at me, I'm a mess!" I told her.

Solas giggled and reached out her hand for my nose.

"Oh, yeah, colour my nose, so that I'll look like a clown. Go ahead, you monster!"

"Clown?" Solas chirped.

The first word she had actually pronounced in a way that I could understand her.

"Yeah, a clown, a painted guy who makes fun, does faces, plays tricks and pranks." I made a truly horrible grimace for her.

Little Solas hooted and tried a grimace of her own, which was not bad. Not bad at all. Somehow I got the feeling that Sorcha would live to regret it that she had ever allowed me to play with her daughter. "Very nice," I told the child. "But we don't do that where Mummy can see us, o.k.? It's a secret, only for you and me. Right?"

"Goo goo…" I don't think she quite understood what I wanted to convey to her, for she turned to the kitchen door and made another grimace, then hid her face against my chest.

"She is in the yard, playing with my little daughter, my lord," I heard Sorcha's voice.

I felt the blood draining from my head and my heart was suddenly thumping madly. Then the kitchen door opened onto the yard. I sat on the ground in the puddle, splattered with mud, a small child in my lap that was equally covered with dirt and stared up at Éomer.

He looked horrible. He was pale, and there were deep circles under his eyes.

I probably should not have enjoyed seeing him like that, but I have to admit I felt some perverse satisfaction.

He stood in the doorway and stared at me.

I sat in the mud and stared back.

Why is it that real life can get more embarrassing than anything a writer or director could **ever** come up with?

He opened his mouth and closed it again. I kept staring at him wordlessly.

On my lap, Solas wriggled. She chanced a look at the strange man.

"Who that?" she asked, her voice clear and high. So she _could_ talk correctly.

Éomer stepped slowly into the yard and walked towards us.

I had to force myself not to draw back.

Éomer squatted down next to me.

I inhaled his spicy scent, which only a few days ago had driven me almost mad with desire. Now this scent made my eyes burn with tears. Éomer did not look at me, but at Solas.

"I am a friend of Lothíriel," he said, his dark voice tense.

Solas looked at me, thinking so hard that she creased her forehead into small wrinkles.

Finally she asked, "Friend?"

Almost as if she did not believe him. And perhaps she did not. My body was as tense as Éomer's voice. My stomach was tied into a hard knot.

"I hope I still am a friend," Éomer said. "Lothíriel, we have to talk."

_When had I heard that before…_

I would not cry. Damn his eyes.

"Lothíriel?"

"Yes," I said, and I wished I could have made my voice sound neutral, I wished I could have kept the pain from my voice. I put Solas on her feet and slowly rose from the puddle. My bottom was wet, and my front was smeared with mud. My nose was caked with a dash of dirt.

_Yes, that was exactly how I had thought I would look like for another chance of talking to Éomer._

"How about we go inside?" Éomer suggested.

I shook my head. "No. I have to watch Solas. Sorcha's husband died on the Fields of the Pelennor. She's waiting for a commission to make some children's dresses. She needs the money to keep the house."

"Can we at least sit down somewhere?"

I shrugged and tried to brush the dirt from my nose. I sneezed. "That bench over there?"

I bent down to Solas. "Hey, little one? Can you play on your own for a moment, so I can talk to this man? But I will be watching you, so there's no need to try eating mud. Do you hear me? No mud in you mouth!"

I sat down as far away from Éomer as I could get. I think he noticed. What the hell. I did so not want to start crying only because I felt the warmth of his body and smelled his spicy scent.

"How do you know Sorcha?" Éomer asked finally.

"How did you find me?" I asked back.

Perhaps it would have been better if he had not found me quite that soon, I realized. I felt so heartbroken that I had to hold onto myself not to strike out at him or simply collapse into a crying heap of mud-caked Lothíriel.

"Frodo remembered about the letter for one Fynbar of Tarnost that you carried for his wife to Cormallen. It was the best guess."

"I met Sorcha when I carried the message to Prince Imrahil to go to war in March. She explained to me the different companies of the armies of the south-western provinces."

I shuddered at the memory of those dark, cold days. "Her husband was a foot-soldier with the company of Tarnost."

"So many died that day," Éomer said in a low voice.

"Every second fighter died, there and at the Morannon. And another few thousand died of the wounds." My voice sounded thin. He had not come here to talk about this.

"How do you know that?"

"Because I asked the captains at the Field of Cormallen."

"You really care for this world as though it were your own."

Was that a question? I looked at Éomer. His face, his voice were kept so very carefully calm.

"It _is_ my world now," I replied a little sharply.

We fell silent. Thoughts were running in circles in my mind, questions were choking me.

_Do you really believe I lied to you? Do you really believe I wanted to deceive you? Do you really believe that I am a whore and a slut?_

Suddenly Éomer turned to me. The mask of calmness that had hidden his thoughts and feelings was gone. His eyes were dark with anguish. His lips were white and pressed together tightly. "I am so sorry, Lothíriel."

I sighed. "I am sorry, too."

Now we had both said we were sorry. But I discovered that it was not that easy. Certain rash words were still between us. A simple "I'm sorry" would not take them away.

"Do you really believe that I lied to you? Do you really believe that I wanted to deceive you? That I'm… that I'm a whore?"

He closed his eyes. The lines of his jaws tensed. I saw that he did not want to hear what he had said to me. He sighed deeply. After a long moment he answered, "No. No, I don't think that you lied to me. I don't think that you wanted to deceive me or betray me. And I don't think that you are a whore… or a slut." It was obvious that he had to force himself to say those words. The words seemed to cause him now the same pain they had caused me, when he had shouted them at me. I watched how he swallowed hard. "But you did keep so much hidden from me. It was hard to believe what you told me. It was hard to accept what you told me."

"I am sorry, Éomer. I should have told you sooner. I know that now. But it was difficult. I was afraid how you would react to… my story. As it turned out, I had good reason to be afraid of your reaction."

"Oh, Valar," he said, turning away from me and covering his face with his hands. "Yes, I can see that. And you did tell me everything. How many would have just lied? How many would have told a lie about what kind of life they had led in that other world?"

I clenched my teeth. "My life in that other world was a perfectly ordinary life. I was a good girl in that other world. I never committed a crime. I never took drugs. I had two boyfriends by the time I was twenty-four which is really not many. I was faithful to both of them. We broke things off in a friendly manner when our relationships did not work out and moved on. As is the custom of that other world. There is nothing I have to be ashamed off. There is no reason there for any lies."

I stared at Éomer. Then I went on. I realized that I was really angry at him. I was angry and hurt. "And I don't think that there is anything in my life here that I should be ashamed of or tell lies about, either. There was no time to fall in love with Boromir. But I needed him and he needed me. I am not ashamed for that, even though I probably should have known that it would lead to difficulties later on, the way society works here."

"Only if you talked about it, and you could have simply kept silent," Éomer said, "You really believe that you did nothing wrong."

There was only one possible answer. "Yes. The way I was raised I _did_ do nothing wrong."

"I am so sorry, Lothíriel. Will you forgive me?"

I stared at Éomer, and I wanted so much to be held close, to be kissed and forgiven and to forget. But forgiveness does not come that easily. Words can hurt as much as sticks and stones.

"I want to," I said slowly. "I really want to. But where do we go from here, Éomer? Will we be friends? Will we be more than friends? And you know, I don't really know much about you either."

"What I said to you at Cormallen is still true," Éomer said softly. "I have nothing to offer you yet."

I shook my head. "That is not true. You have everything that I ever wanted from you. I don't want a king or a kingdom. I have fallen in love with you, Éomer. Éomer, the man. Éomer, the dancer. Éomer, the singer. Éomer, the warrior. Éomer, the rider. I don't want a king."

"But will you take him – _the king?_ Should he ask you?"

"And who will he ask?" I countered. "The Lothíriel of this world or the Lothíriel of that other world? A lady Lothíriel, if you can convince Aragorn to have me elevated to peerage? Lothíriel, the member of the fellowship? Lothíriel, the…"

"Don't say that again, please," he interrupted. "I would ask _my_ Lothíriel," he continued. "I would ask the woman who says she can't dance and can't ride and does both. I would ask the woman who makes my head spin. I would ask the woman who makes me smile every day. I would ask the woman whose perfume drives me crazy. I would ask beautiful, brave, funny, smart and caring Lothíriel. I would ask the woman who I have come to know and love. I would ask Lothíriel."

"So you do know me, after all?"

"Yes," he said. "I do know you."

Then, as if we had been touched by an angel's wing, grace and forgiveness were suddenly there for us to take. And take it we did. Humbly. Gratefully. Tenderly.

Until Solas tripped over a root of the apple tree and landed headlong in the mud. She was not hurt. But the fall had scared her. She screamed like a banshee.

I was in the mud next to her in a second. I took her small, warm, muddy body in my arms and held her close to me, calming her, drying her tears. Suddenly I thought how it would be to have a little daughter of my own. I raised eyes to look at Éomer. My heart thumped almost painfully in my chest at the depth of feeling visible in his eyes and in his face.

"Now, everything alright again?" Solas rubbed at her eyes. By now she was so dirty that I don't think she had a spot the size of a coin of white, clean skin left on her body.

"Will you look at yourself, Solas! I think you have turned into a rain worm, so grubby are you! You're a real grubby grub! Your mom's gonna love that."

"Grubby grub?" Solas piped up, her eyes beginning to brighten again above the white streaks left on her face by her tears.

Then I looked down at my body. "And look at me! I look just the same!"

"Grubby grub!" Solas called out, smiling happily. "Grubby grub!"

And she danced away, happy with a new expression. "Grubby grub!"

I rose to my feet and found myself right in front of Éomer. He had come for me. Relief flooded through me. He had come for _me_.

"Come home with me," he whispered and reached out for me.

"Don't, you'll get all that dirt on your fine tunic!"

"Grubby grub?" he asked laughingly and drew me against his chest. Then he lowered his head and kissed me, mud and dirt notwithstanding. And I let him.

Love is to accept pain. And if you love someone to the end of the world and back, if you love someone right up to the moon and back again, you will hurt him. He will hurt you. In the best of worlds, in the best of lives, in the best of loves, there will be hurt. Thoughtless words. Uncaring moments. Love is to accept this pain and to overcome it and move on together.

As I allowed Éomer to kiss me that day, I learned that lesson for the first time. We had hurt each other. Not on purpose, but we had. We had somehow managed to overcome the pain and the hurt. We would be able to move on together. Not the King-to-be and the woman from another world.

But simply Éomer and Lothíriel.

******ooo**

Éomer had brought some clothes for me. That was just as well, because in the state I was in, covered in sludge from head to toe, there was no way for me to ride for Minas Tirith.

"Éowyn told me to take them with me," he said as he handed me the bundle.

"You have no idea how mad my sister was at me," he shuddered. "I have never seen her so angry before."

I did not say, _maybe you deserved it_. I simply accepted the clothes and disappeared to get clean and dressed again, leaving little "grubby grub" to her mother.

Washing thoroughly with cold water is not my idea of fun. But as I really wanted to return to Minas Tirith with Éomer, I had to get clean. Restored to as much cleanliness as cold water and home-made soap could get me, I returned to the kitchen. There I found Éomer chatting amiably with Sorcha, a clean Solas busy with her wooden toys on the floor. My stomach flipped as Éomer turned to me, his eyes lighting up as he saw me. My feelings towards him had not changed. My desire for him had not changed either.

"I have saddled Mithril already," Éomer told me. "Though we would both like to stay longer, Mistress Sorcha, I have to be back in Minas Tirith to escort the body of my uncle home for his funeral. We are to leave Minas Tirith in four days."

"I am very sorry for your loss, my lord," Sorcha said.

"And I for yours," Éomer answered. His voice was filled with honest regret. He might be a noble, he might be king, but he did not hold himself aloof from the common people.

I could see how Sorcha liked his easy and polite manner and was filled with pride. _Look, _I wanted to shout and dance, _look, that's him, that's my Éomer. My Éomer!_

Then it was time for me to say goodbye to Sorcha and Solas. I kissed little "grubby grub". I embraced Sorcha. "Thank you. Thank you for everything. I will return as soon as I can and visit you again, if I may."

"We'd be happy to have you," Sorcha told me. "I'm glad I was right. He's a good man. And he really loves you. Never forget that."

"I won't," I whispered and hugged her.

"Now shoo!" Sorcha told us. "I have still work to do today!"

******ooo**

We had already passed beyond the junction of the road near the bridge of Ethring, turning our backs to the bridge and our faces towards the east, when I realized how unusual it was that Éomer had come for me on his own. We were riding side by side in comfortable silence.

I would have preferred to ride with him. That is a most exhilarating experience.

"How come you were allowed to go and get me on your own?" I asked.

"You have to thank Arwen for that," Éomer replied.

"Arwen?"

"Yes. The others were so mad at me that they wanted to throw me into the dungeons rather than allow me to ride to find you on my own."

"Really?" I could not keep back a small, delighted chuckle.

Éomer groaned. "You have some very good friends, my love."

I almost fell from the saddle. I reined in Mimi. Éomer stopped, too, and looked at me, a little confused. "What did you just say?"

"You have some…"

"No, not that." Had I only imagined that?

But he did smile at me tenderly, a deep, deep smile, filled with love and desire.

_"My love?"_

"That… oh my… my… Éomer!… Would…" I felt my cheeks grow hot.

"Would what?" he asked back, his smile deepening.

"Could I ride with you?" I blurted out.

"Don't you do that already?"

My heart was thumping madly. "On Hiswa, I meant ride with you on Hiswa. I… would, I would love to be held right now."

"I would love to hold you," he said, his voice so deep and dark and full of love that a shiver ran down my back.

So I slid down from Mithril's back, secured her reins, and let Éomer draw me up before him.

He held me against him tightly as we rode on.

"But don't tell the Lady Míriël about this – or worse, Sam," he whispered into my ear. "They would kill me, or worse, maim me. And it's a wonder I was able to come and find you and still be a man."

I could not restrain a giggle.

"Laugh all you want, I know the joke's on me," he whispered and managed to sneak in a quick, quite chaste but nevertheless delightful, kiss.

"You said I had friends, didn't you?" I asked, the grin audible in my voice.

"Oh, yes, you do, my love. I was berated by no less than four women, one dwarf, one wizard, one king, one steward and four hobbits. The only one who did not shout at me, but contented himself to throwing dirty looks at me that by rights should have killed me on the spot was a certain elf."

Growing serious once more, he went on, "Galadriel and Faramir talked with me about Boromir. I cannot say that I like knowing that… he… and you… But I think I can understand what happened. And for his sake, I am glad that you were there. Though I cannot but feel glad he is no more and that makes me ache with guilt. Gandalf told me about your world, and how it was much more like ours is now even a century ago – and how it changed. He was very insistent that I should understand your background." Éomer shook his head. His soft beard tickled the back of my neck. I had to suppress a gasp of sudden desire at this soft, feathery tickling.

"That wizard is cunning. I think there is nothing he doesn't know. I wonder why he goes to your world…"

"Well, when I met him, he had bought a new pipe," I said. "But I don't think that's all he did there, or all he does there. But how did Arwen manage to get them to agree to let you go looking for me alone?"

"She gave her husband one of those long looks that have us men quivering in our boots and said that this is a matter between you and me, and as you did not need a chaperone in your world, why should you need one now. Lady Míriël was of a different opinion, but she bowed to the authority of the Queen. Though she made me promise by my life's blood that I would not… take advantage of you? Should you agree to forgive me, that is."

"You promised?" I asked, a little breathlessly. Being held so close to him, feeling him, inhaling him, made me regret him giving such rash promises. He shifted lightly in the saddle behind me, and suddenly I felt him against me. A throaty gasp burst from me. I felt him draw a deep, deep breath.

"Yes, I promised," he repeated, holding me even tighter against him.

"And you hold your promises?"

"Oh, yes, I do. Or would you make a liar of me?" he murmured into my ear.

"Should I get back on Mithril?" I asked, though I did want to stay with him, even if there would be nothing but the almost painful closeness of unfulfilled desire between us.

"No, my love, stay with me. For today, let me hold you. When we return to Minas Tirith and to Edoras, I won't be able to hold you for a long time."

I rested my head against his chest, breathing in his wonderful, masculine scent.

"The other world's sure easier on a body."

Then I felt his lips against my neck, and deep rumbling laughter reverberated softly through his body, the vibrations of it sending shivers down my spine. I leaned against him and answered with a soft chuckle. For a moment he let go of the reins and held me with both his arms and hands against his body, burying his face in my hair, his lips hot against my throat.

Laughter turned into breathless gasps.

"Don't worry, my love, our time will come."


	58. An Earthly Paradise

**58. An Earthly Paradise**

We talked about what was proper and what was inappropriate behaviour. What was indecent and what wasn't – where I came from and here. I think Éomer was relieved to hear that there were a number of things I considered indecent. But in the end we decided to stretch the Lady Míriël's view a little in the direction of that other world.

We slept in each other's arms that night. We did not sleep with each other. We did not make love. We did not even do any serious snogging. Well, perhaps a little. But for the most part, we simply held on to each other. All through the hot summer's night.

It was the first time in my life that I slept that way, simply being held in a loving embrace, until the sun rose in beautiful pastel, kissing us awake ever so softly.

When we were ready to go, I mounted Mithril to ride on my own again.

Riding on one horse was not really appropriate.

And it made Éomer very apparently indecent.

******ooo**

When we entered Minas Tirith, we took the horses to the stables ourselves, brushed them, cleaned their hooves, watered them, fed them, fussed over them. Yes, I think we were reluctant to face the others.

Finally there was no excuse left to stay in the stables save the hayloft, and that would not be appropriate at all…

Éomer gave me a wry smile. "I think we should go up to the Citadel now," he said.

"You are right," I replied, but I did not move. "It's only that it's so embarrassing."

"Fools in love, huh?" He held his hand out to me.

I gaped at him. "You will hold me, where everyone can see it? Proper or not?"

He nodded. "Proper or not."

"I love you," I said on an impulse. He drew me against his chest, holding me tightly, and he kissed me, only lips, stroking, seeking.

_How about that hayloft?_

"Let's go," Éomer said, drawing back from me, "before I lose my nerve."

I found that I could muster a grin. "Fools in love, right?"

He squeezed my hand.

******ooo**

Hand in hand we left the stables. Hand in hand we walked up to the seventh circle of the city. A white pavilion had been set up on the Embrasure, with a long dinner table under it, and a few groups of comfortable chairs and low tables. With a pounding heart I realized that about everyone was there. I felt my cheeks grow hot. I did not need a mirror to know that for once my cheeks were not only hot, but they were flaming in a bright red colour.

Éomer kept holding my hand. He could not ask me yet. But he would make it very clear to the world at large that he would not let me go, no matter what my background. Somehow the events of the last few days had brought out a very possessive streak of his personality. His strong, warm grip gave me the strength to go on.

Arwen was playing chess with her father. Lady Míriël was talking with Éowyn and Faramir was sitting with them, but I don't think he listened to a word they were saying. He seemed to be absolutely enraptured by Éowyn. Aragorn was discussing something with the hobbits and Legolas was sitting on the wall of the Embrasure, looking across the Fields of the Pelennor, lost in thought. Gimli was sitting cross-legged on the ground in the shade of the wall, a tankard of beer sitting next to him.

The Lady Galadriel was lounging on a blanket near the fountain, with the Lord Celeborn keeping her company. And back on earth, the activity they were engaged in, well, _I_would have called it "snogging".

******ooo**

Then we were at the pavilion.

Éowyn jumped up and hurried towards me and embraced me. "I'm so sorry, Lothy, I had no idea he would be such an idiot." She glared at her brother.

"I probably should have told him sooner…"

"And you should not have gone and told him that story all alone," Míriël added.

I hung my head, my cheeks flushed. "Sorcha said that, too."

"Sorcha sounds like a sensible person. Now, Lothíriel, are you quite through with your running away and any other theatrics?" Míriël looked at me sternly.

"My lady, please." That was Gandalf who had appeared out of thin air for all that I could see.

"One should not be so strict with young people who are madly in love."

"I am not being strict. However, I _was_ awfully worried." With that Míriël embraced me, too. "Lothy, you stupid girl, why didn't you tell me all of that? I could have helped you!"

I shrugged. "I don't really know. I guess I was too frightened that you might not understand…"

"Oh, my… we are not quite that narrow-minded, thank you. We can accept that there are countries – worlds – where customs differ from ours," Míriël told me.

"Except my brother," Éowyn muttered, only to be hushed by Faramir.

"Your brother has apologized to me and I have accepted his apology," I said in a hopefully firm voice. Éomer drew me closer against him, pointedly ignoring Lady Míriël's raised eyebrows and asked politely, "Could we have something cool to drink? We have come directly to our well-earned scolding. That should be worth a least a glass of lemonade."

"I think I can even grant you a glass of white wine, if you want one, Éomer," Aragorn offered, walking towards us with the hobbits in tow.

"That would be wonderful," Éomer said gratefully and I nodded. We moved to the long dinner table. Arwen and Elrond only raised their hands in a quick gesture of greeting, and then returned to their game. But I think Arwen winked at me.

******ooo**

Frodo was walking beside me. He tilted his head back and grinned at me, his blue eyes blazing. "Then you did go to that woman at Tarnost, Sorcha? The one whose husband died in the war?"

I nodded. "Yes, I did. Thank you for remembering about the letter."

Frodo smiled. "I'm glad I did. You look really happy now. Then you will stay here? Forever?"

"Yes," I replied and my heart filled with the joy that I always felt at the thought of this Middle-earth, of my Middle-earth. "Forever. This is my home now."

"I don't think I will be able to stay," Frodo whispered suddenly, his eyes darkening as if a curtain had been drawn away to reveal a never-ending darkness. "You know that, too, don't you? Gandalf told us, about you, and the books in your world. You know how it will really end, do you?"

Was he asking me if he would be saved?

I let go of Éomer's hand and drew Frodo off to the side. His eyes were searching my face for an answer, torn between hope and pain. "Arwen, did she…" I trailed off, not sure if it had already happened, or if I indeed remembered correctly. Those memories were so hazy that I almost could not recall them anymore.

But Frodo nodded. "Yes, she offered that…" I saw that it was difficult for him to go on.

What should I tell him? Was there a chance for him to stay here and heal, even though in the books he had gone to Aman?

"You have been invited," I said finally. "But whether you want to go, whether you have to go, you will have to decide that for yourself. For now, I would say, give yourself time. Look, I am no doctor, I mean, I am no healer, but there are such conditions as yours in my world, too. The victims of crimes, soldiers who have fought in wars, survivors of natural catastrophes, sometimes they can never forget their experiences, and they are haunted by what they saw or what they did for many years. Sometimes forever. However, some of them heal. That much I know. But such healing takes time. Don't be so hard on yourself."

The hobbit sighed deeply. "Thank you. I think I will go for a walk now."

As he turned away, I heard him murmur my words under his breath. _"What they did…"_

I suddenly realized what haunted the hobbit most of all. In the end, his strength had not been enough. _He had failed. _Or at least that was how he thought of what had happened. In his eyes, he had failed and now everyone treated him like a hero, although he himself did not feel like a hero at all. And apart from that, he was probably still suffering from after-effects of the ring and its power… probably like being on a really awful, habit forming drug and then go cold turkey. I shuddered.

Éomer had waited for me. I smiled at him, grateful for the warmth and the light in his dark eyes. However dark Éomer's eyes were, they held no trace of this abyssal darkness I had seen in Frodo's bright blue eyes. I leaned against Éomer's side, seeking shelter against the cold shadows of war and evil that were so slow in passing from this world.

******ooo**

Servants arrived, bearing trays with pitchers of white wine and long stemmed, hand blown glasses. When everyone was served, including Legolas, who had left his high perch to join us with a grumbling Gimli in tow, Éomer raised his glass in a toast. Everyone looked at him expectantly. He only looked at me and smiled his special smile, the one that belongs only to me.

"To fools!" he said loud and clearly. There were more than a few grins and chuckles, but they raised their glasses to us.

And finally, finally everything was as it should be. It was summer and the sun was shining.

The wine tasted like tart like lemons, with just enough vanilla to feel like silk on the tongue. It was peace and joy and good. Éomer knew everything about me, and in due time I would know everything about Éomer.

It was simply, utterly perfect.

******ooo**

When dinner was about to be served, Elladan and Elrohir appeared with a slightly reluctant Haldir between them. Arwen finally managed to win her match against her father. The Lady Galadriel and the Lord Celeborn stopped doing whatever they had been doing on that blanket near the fountain and joined the rest of us at the table. The last to arrive was Lord Imrahil who gave his wife a nod, favoured me with a quick embrace, and then sat down next to Aragorn, talking to the King in a low voice.

When the first course – slices of yellow melons with thin curls of smoked ham – was served, Éomer was regaling the twins, Gimli and the hobbits with the story of how he had found me at Sorcha's, sitting in the mud with little Solas. Arwen listened with her mouth slightly open. She looked very sweet, all misty eyed at the thought of a child of her own. I grinned at Éomer. I did not mind. Solas was sweet, and how could she have known that the King of Rohan was about to pay us a visit.

"And then she said 'grubby grub' and ran away to chase the chickens," he ended.

"Solas is a cute little thing," I commented. "She looks like an angel, but she's a trickster at heart." Then I sighed. "I only hope that her mother will manage to keep their house."

"Why shouldn't she?" Arwen asked me, bewildered.

"Her husband died in the war, and it's difficult for a woman in Gondor or Rohan to earn her living on her own. Sorcha does a bit of mending and dressmaking on the side, but I have no idea how far this will get her," I explained, feeling vaguely embarrassed that I suddenly found myself knowing more about the life of Gondor's common people than Gondor's queen.

"There should be some money coming to her from the company of her husband," Faramir said. "I will have someone looking into that matter."

"That would be wonderful." I smiled at the young steward. Éowyn was glowing with happiness beside him. As I was probably glowing just as much in the vicinity of Éomer, I won't make any snide comments. They tend to turn around and bite me in the…

"What have you three been up to today," Elrond asked his sons and the marchwarden of Lórien conversationally.

They did not answer right away, but looked at one another in turn as if trying to figure out who should do the talking. As Elrond was beginning to frown, I was beginning to wonder what exactly they _had_ been up to.

"Nothing," Elladan finally said. His brother nodded, looking just a little too relieved. Haldir tried to look in a direction of the table where no elf was sitting. Galadriel smiled enigmatically. The Lady of the Golden Wood had a very human way of always knowing everything, including the gossip.

"Oh, Ada, let them be, whatever they have been doing, it can't have been dangerous. Let them have fun for once. In three days we have to leave anyway, and I know they will have scouting detail again," Arwen pleaded with her father. Elrond raised a delicately slanted dark eyebrow at his daughter, and his eyes sparkled like silver stars. "How could I resist such a charming plea?" he asked, but he glared at his sons nonetheless. Elladan and Elrohir on the other side of the table blushed prettily, right up to the tips of their pointy ears. Whatever it was that they had been doing, had probably been _at least_ dangerous.

The second course was fish in a spicy sauce with white rice, touched off with cilantro leaves. The white wine complemented this dish marvellously. Gradually I felt completely relaxed with the amiable conversation and easy atmosphere of the evening.

King and Queen, lords and ladies, elves, wizard, dwarf – names I knew from tales and legends and from great deeds of epic proportions; and for the most part, the best friends I had ever had in my life. Awe and respect may have their part in friendship, but there's more. Funny things, like a burned bed, or sad things, like shared tears at a friend's death, a thousand touches, looks and whispers and many long evenings of sitting around a campfire in the wilderness: those are the many facets that add up to the kaleidoscope of friendship.

_Thank you,_ I thought with all my heart. _Thank you._

I leaned against Éomer, like him ignoring Lady Míriël's raised eyebrows, and sipped my white wine. Once again I wished that I could take, or at least paint, a picture of this evening: friends of all the free races of Middle-earth gathered at a table on a bright summer's evening, to eat, to drink, to talk, and never to meet again.

I knew that I would not see Elrond again, or the Lady Galadriel, and I did not think that I would see Frodo again, either, or Gandalf. One of the few dates that I remembered clearly from the books even today, was the year 3021. In two years they would sail for Aman, the Blessed, the western paradise.

I tried to memorize their faces, so that I would be able to recall how they had looked and talked and smiled on this lovely summer evening, in the years to come.

I wanted to remember them. All of them.

Running away like that had somehow made it clear to me once more how easy it is to lose what and whom we hold dear. The men and women, the elves, hobbits and the dwarf, as they were gathered around this table, I held them dear.

I did not want to forget them.

There was a bittersweet ache in my heart. There was the happiness of my turmoil resolved into love and hope, but there was also the knowledge of the transience of this life and its friendships. Elrond smiled softly at his daughter, his eyes warm with her happiness and filled with pride at his son-in-law. Galadriel snuggled up against Celeborn much the same way as I leaned against Éomer. But I knew that she would go, whereas he would remain in Middle-earth for some time yet. Frodo had returned from his walk, seemingly at peace - for the time being at least. The hobbits were exchanging bad jokes with Gimli while Legolas looked on with a faint smile. Faramir raised Éowyn's hand to his lips only to visibly wilt under the Lady Míriël's censorious look.

What paradise could be had in Arda, here it was. Here and now. Tonight.

_An earthly paradise._

My heart filled with this strange kind of happiness that is almost painful.

_Bittersweet._

I tilted my head up and smiled at Éomer. He looked down at me, his eyes dark with happy amber flecks dancing around his pupils.

"I love you," I whispered.

"I love you, too," Éomer whispered back to me. And then he did the unthinkable.

He kissed me.

With everyone watching!

And the Lady Míriël only laughed softly.

******ooo**

When we had finished the last course, a sorbet with passion fruits – the joke was definitely on Arwen who blushed prettily, whereas her father scowled at the grinning men around the table –, Prince Imrahil rose to his feet and touched his silver spoon against his glass.

Within moments he had everyone's attention. He was an imposing figure of a man, tall and lithe as any elf with this long white-blonde hair and his strange, piercing light eyes.

He smiled at everyone. For a moment his gaze lingered on me, and the corners of his lips seemed to be twitching with a smile.

"My wife thought it wise to ask this question in a public place with as many witnesses as possible and enough strong men about to catch her, should she want to run away again. I say this only, dear Lothíriel, so that you know who is to blame for this question to be asked on this occasion. That we would ask this question has been clear between my wife and me for many weeks now. But after certain events –" Here Prince Imrahil favoured the King of Rohan with a very stern look that had Éomer cringe in his seat. "After certain events, both of us thought that we should ask this question as soon as possible." He paused. Then he smiled at me.

"Dear Lothíriel. My wife and I would like to ask you if you would allow us to adopt you as our daughter. And although I will not deny that there are practical reasons involved in this question, as well as a wish to honour our own daughter who never grew up, I ask you to believe me, and Eru and the Valar may bear me witness, that the main reason for us asking you to become a part of our family is simply that we like and love you very much. And my sons have asked me to tell you to say yes, because they are in dire need of a beautiful sister."

For a moment, everyone was silent and staring at Prince Imrahil.

Then the hobbits, Éowyn, and Gimli started cheering, and after another moment everyone else had joined them, clapping and cheering. I simply sat there and stared at Prince Imrahil with my mouth hanging open in a very undignified manner. Finally I closed my mouth. My cheeks were burning and I had no idea what to think or what to say.

_They wanted to adopt me!_

"Love" was perhaps a little exaggerated. But I knew that the Prince had admired how I had carried the messages during the war. He had also enjoyed talking with me about history and philosophy during our weeks at Cormallen. So I could believe that he liked me. Míriël had always wanted a daughter. I knew that her initial curiosity about me was probably sparked by my name, but our friendship had grown far beyond a sad memory and an unusual name during the last months. I knew that Míri liked me a lot and even loved me, perhaps. I knew that I loved her. She was so exactly the way I had always wanted my own mother to be. I loved the little boys, and I was in awe of Elphir, who is a truly formidable warrior.

Then what about the practical relevance of an adoption?

I knew enough about politics to know that Éowyn had probably approached Míri about the possibility of an adoption. I think that both, Éomer and Aragorn, might have talked to Prince Imrahil. But I also believed in the Prince's honesty. If he said that he and Míri had decided to ask me weeks ago, then this was the truth. Should I turn down an offer of love and honour only because it would aid the man I loved politically? Even though I knew politics were not the only, and probably not even the main, reasons for this offer?

I am sometimes silly. I am sometimes stupid. But my arrogance does not stretch quite that far.

I rose to my feet and my knees were all wobbly. I looked at the smiling face of Prince Imrahil and Lady Míriël, who had risen from her chair and had gone to stand next to her husband. I had to swallow hard. Then I drew a shaky breath. I looked at Imrahil and Míri, and I said, with as firm a voice as I could manage, "With all my heart and all my soul: yes. Yes, I will gladly become your daughter."

And then I did a very earth-like, and not at all dignified and graceful thing. I scrambled out of the bench and ran around the table and I hugged them. And they hugged me. And I cried. And Míri cried. Arwen cried, too. Éowyn smiled broadly. Gimli cried. He's a real sap, that dwarf.

Another round of cheering rose up from all around the table, and then Aragorn raised his glass in a toast to the "Lady Lothíriel of Dol Amroth".

My new name was echoed all around the table, and for the remainder of the evening I sat between Míri and Imrahil. Arwen made me practice calling Imrahil "Ada", which discomfited both of us initially, but an insistent queen and enough wine will make you do the most extraordinary things. He's been 'Ada' to me ever since, and he calls me 'iëll'. But Míri is Míri and always will be.

And that's how a ranger out of Erlangen became the Lady Lothíriel of Dol Amroth.


	59. Politics and Power Plays

**59. Politics and Power**

Politics. Politics and power.

The most imminent thing that changed after Éomer had come to find me at Tarnost was that I was sucked into the politics and the power plays of the Gondorian and Rohirric nobility.

I had realized almost at once that my adoption by the Prince of Dol Amroth was not only an act of love and friendship, but a political effort to smooth Éomer's ascent to the throne of Rohan. It followed logically that the funeral escort of Théoden was not only an honour to the fallen hero, but a political endeavour, too.

The funeral escort would serve to cement the renewed ties between Rohan and Gondor, which were by no means favoured by all lords in either Rohan or Gondor. The funeral escort was also the first part of the royal progress through the kingdom of Gondor and Arnor. You have to realize that the way Gondor and Rohan were ruled was actually not medieval. Both kings ruled from their capitals. There was some centralized bureaucracy and an established system of government in both countries.

This is very different from the way the kings of Europe had ruled their lands during the middle ages. Since the days of Carolus Magnus, the European rulers had governed their people by incessantly travelling from city to city and from fiefdom to fiefdom. Their way of ruling had been a complicated way of coming to those who needed to be controlled and forcing the less powerful to travel to wherever the king was at any given time. This was not the case with either Rohan or Gondor, but whenever a new king ascended the throne, the first thing he did was to go on a royal progress through the kingdom. The new king would travel through all provinces and fiefdoms, to show himself to his subjects, to hold judgment and give counsel and, of course, to collect taxes. Money makes the world go round, even in Middle-earth.

Sorcha had told me that I had to start behaving like a queen. Lady Míriël seemed to share Sorcha's point of view.

On the evening before we would set out for Edoras, she sent a servant down to the white villa on the sixth circle of Minas Tirith to summon me to the king's study. When I arrived in the study, a huge room lined with bookshelves, most seats around a magnificent table of gleaming red wood were already taken. Aragorn presided this meeting. But at his side were Arwen and Elrond. Gandalf was there, Faramir, Éowyn, Éomer, Húrin of the Keyes, Prince Imrahil, Lady Míriël, Elphir, who had risen in rank to the captain of the royal guard at Minas Tirith, and Elfhelm, who was to be the second marshal of the Mark when Éomer was proclaimed king. From those present I deduced that this meeting would be a matter of Gondorian and Rohirric politics, and for a moment I wondered for what reason I should be included. Then realization struck me in a rush of hot and cold shivers running down my back.

Éomer really meant to marry me.

I would be adopted by the third family in the book of kings of Gondor to aid that purpose.

In all probability I would be queen of Rohan one of these days. And although Rohan had no tradition of ruling queens such as Gondor, the queens of Rohan were by no means powerless or idle. Éowyn had told me a lot about the history of Rohan. Just let me say this: the term "shield-maiden" is not a joke.

I inhaled deeply and sat down in a chair next to Lady Míriël. She smiled at me. Then she whispered, "Sit down, be quiet and listen well." I nodded mutely.

Aragorn looked around the table. Obviously everyone was present he expected because he rose from his chair. "Good evening, my ladies and my lords. We have come together this evening to discuss the organization of the funeral escort and the subsequent progress through Gondor and Arnor. First I want to address the matter of the funeral escort. It is inevitable that this escort will be connected with various political matters."

Éomer shifted in his chair. He was looking at Aragorn, and I thought that he did not like the thought of connecting his uncle's burial with politics. Éowyn was watching her brother with raised eyebrows. Éowyn had a much firmer footing in politics than her brother due to her care of the old king. It was not so much lack of ability on Éomer's part, but rather a marked lack of inclination until his cousin had been killed. Now here Éomer was, a young man of twenty-eight years, who would ascend a throne of a land torn by war and treason and who had no real experience with the political machinations of his realm's nobles and powers-that-be at all.

This only goes to say that Éomer did not only look tired because he spent his nights dreaming of me or grieving for his uncle. There were many urgent matters at hand of political importance that had to be dealt with, and no one in Rohan he could really turn to for advice.

In comparison Aragorn had not only a head start of sixty years of experience with men and politics, he had also three of the most powerful and influential men of all Gondor on his side – Prince Imrahil, Lord Steward Faramir and the Warden of the Keyes, Lord Húrin.

Éomer's mainstay was his sister, and his fellow warriors, the other two marshals of the Mark, Elfhelm and Erkenbrand. But warriors and heroes are not necessarily good politicians.

"The first thing to discuss is the matter of the Druadan Forest and the Wild Men of the Woods. I will enfeoff them with the forest in return for their services during the war,"

Aragorn continued.

"How much land are you thinking of, sire?" Faramir asked. "There is the matter of fire-wood. I would think it most unwise to give them all of the woods in the area."

Aragorn sighed. "You are right, of course. But it will have to be all of Druadan Forest. Anything else would make a mockery of their service."

"Then leave out the Grey Wood, my lord," suggested Húrin. "It is not connected to Druadan Forest, and the people of the area of Minas Tirith much prefer going there, anyway. They say Druadan Forest is uncanny. They are afraid of the Woses."

Aragorn turned to Gandalf. "What do you think?"

Gandalf nodded to Húrin. "I agree with the Warden of the Keys. Granting them Druadan Forest is a more than generous remuneration of their service, Aragorn. No king in the history of Gondor has ever acknowledged them as a people. They will be grateful to you and your heirs to the end of time."

Aragorn made a note on the piece of parchment he had lying on the table in front of him.

"Good. Now to the matter of the funeral. Everything should go smoothly there, I think. Or does anyone see any problems?"

All around the table heads were shaken.

"After the funeral Éomer will be made king. Is there anything we should know about the political situation in Rohan, my friend?" Aragorn turned to Éomer.

Éomer pressed his lips together and shrugged. I narrowed my eyes. There was something.

Éowyn was frowning at her brother. When it was obvious that Éomer would not speak, Éowyn cleared her throat. "Yes, there are a number of things I hope my brother told you about. Namely the matter of Lord Grimsir of the Westfold of Adornond."

Éomer glared at his sister.

I had never heard of the Lord Grimsir before. Somehow the name had an ominous sound.

A vague feeling of apprehension grew in my heart. _Don't be silly, Lothíriel._

"What about Lord Grimsir?" Aragorn asked.

Éomer sighed. "Lord Grimsir is Gríma Wormtongue's older brother and he does not like me. That's all."

Éowyn shook her head. In a very business-like voice she explained the political situation in Rohan. "That is not all, and you well know it. Lord Grimsir is the oldest of the Lords of the five provinces and his voice is the deciding factor in the council. Elfhelm and Erkenbrand will only succeed to the lordship of the Eastfold and West Emnet when Éomer is proclaimed king. That leaves the lords of East Emnet and the Wold. Lord Berig of the Wold will hold with Éomer, but Lord Eutharich of West Emnet is volatile by nature and spiteful by character. Elfhelm and Erkenbrand may not vote because their succession is bound to the king's ascension to the throne. Therefore it comes down to the votes of Grimsir, Berig and Eutharich. I think it is very possible that Lord Grimsir might call for trial by ordeal to ascertain Éomer's competence as king of Rohan. And by our laws of old that is his right, because the line of kings was broken, and Grimsir can trace his ancestry back to King Grim of Rohan."

At Éowyn's words a sick weight formed in the pit of my stomach. Trial by ordeal?

"Éomer is one of the best fighters I have ever seen," Faramir said. "Would there be a problem? Apart from the political implications?"

Éowyn raised her eyebrows. "Apart from any political implications? I did mention that Lord Grimsir is the older brother of Gríma Wormtongue, didn't I? I know, he condemned his brother's treason in a very public way and at the first opportunity, but the Westfold and especially Adornond could have increased its size and wealth enormously had Gríma succeeded in his plans. I am not saying that Lord Grimsir is or was in league with Saruman or Gríma. I am only saying that he could have gained much, had the treason not been discovered or had the battle at Helm's Deep ended differently."

"But what would he gain in trying to prevent Éomer's ascent to the throne or cause difficulties for him? Théoden made him his heir according to ancient Rohirric custom," Aragorn asked, looking at Éomer. Éomer stared back at Aragorn. His eyes were almost black, his jaw set.

"Power. He could  
ask for trial by ordeal and then call it off. Then I would be king by his grace. Did he not call it off, it would still leave a mark of missing trust in my ascension to the throne. I don't think he really believes that he could claim the throne. But there's no love lost between us, and he will do anything to reduce the influence of Edoras on the way he rules the Westfold." Éomer's voice was calm and even, with only a hint of bitterness. I remembered what he had told me, weeks ago. _I would have been content with my horses and leading my company… Instead I will be thrown into a pit of vipers now._ And I will get to be there with him.

Politics. Politics and power plays. And I had thought with the war and the end of the enemy all would be well. _All's well that ends well,_ a stray thought popped up in my mind. _But this play has only just begun…_

Then the morning of our departure had arrived. The golden summer days of healing and companionship at Minas Tirith had flown by, and as I slowly rode down to the Great gates, I wondered where the time had gone. It was but an hour after dawn, and although the day promised to be bright and hot, for the moment shimmering mists drifted up from the Anduin and down from Mindolluin.

The company was assembled at the Great Gates. On the road just outside the gates a wain was waiting for the casket of Théoden King. Merry was already up on the wain at the front, being charged with the honour of carrying the king's weapons. Frohwein would drive the carriage.

Behind the wain the company of the Riders of Rohan waited that had accompanied us to Minas Tirith. It was the Royal Guard, the elite troop of the kingdom, riders of horses with the blood of Mearas. Proud and fierce they looked in their armour of leather and gold, the banner of Rohan flying in the soft summer wind above their heads. Éowyn and Éomer would lead the Rohirrim back home, and because I rode on a Meara, it had been decided that I would be riding with them. It would be a long and impressive train of riders, carriages and marchers on foot, clothed in silks or armour of silver, gold or leather.

The drums began to roll and the deep bells of the gate towers began to toll, waking me from my musings. Aragorn and Éomer, together with Húrin and Faramir acted as pallbearers. They had gone to the Hallows and the tombs of Rath Dínen alone without guards or company. They had carried an empty golden bier.

Now they were returning from that silent street, and the bier was no longer empty. They had carried the black and gold casket down from Rath Dínen through the empty and quiet streets of Minas Tirith. They looked grim as the came through the gates, grim and pale, and their eyes were dark. When they had passed the gates, the drums fell silent and the bells were stilled.

They placed the casket on the funeral wain.

For a moment they stood and looked at the casket and the vehicle that would carry Théoden home to Edoras.

The white walls of Minas Tirith gleamed behind the black wood of the carriage and the sun shone golden on the bier and the golden fittings of the casket, making them glint and glitter in the light. But the Fields of the Pelennor around us were still brown and dead. This summer nothing was growing here.

Aragorn turned away from the casket first. He mounted his horse, Roheryn, and rode to the front of the train and Faramir rode with him. Húrin of the Keyes, who would stay in Minas Tirith, slowly walked back to the shadows of the Great Gates. In Aragorn's absence the governing of Gondor and Minas Tirith would fall to Húrin, as Faramir was riding with us to Edoras to be betrothed to Éowyn when Théoden was buried and Éomer crowned according to the laws and customs of Rohan.

At last Éomer also turned from the wain and mounted his stallion. When he took up his position between Éowyn and me, he seemed withdrawn, and his eyes were dull with pain.

He had loved his uncle very much. Since Éomer's father had died seventeen years ago, Théoden had been like a father to him, through all the years of his youth and early adulthood. Théoden had been Éomer's shining example of how a rider of the Rohirrim and a noble lord should be, before he had succumbed to Saruman's evil spells. His guardianship had made Éomer the man he was today. Théoden's guardianship, and his failing under the malignant influences of Gríma Wormtongue. No wonder that there was no love lost between Gríma's brother and Éomer.

We did not get far that day. Our company consisted of too many people, and the speed of marchers and carriages had to be accommodated. But we did arrive at Druadan Forest at nightfall, and Aragorn sent out his heralds and let them blow their trumpets. When the sounds of the trumpets died away, it seemed to me that the wooded hills were reverberating with deep, deep drums rolling down from the heights. But the sound was so low and so deep and seemed to come from every side that you could not be sure if you had heard anything at all.

Aragorn motioned to his personal herald, a blond man named Gelimer. Gelimer took out a roll of parchment. In a ringing voice he read out the grant of Drúadan. "Behold the King Elessar is come! The Forest of Drúadan he gives to Ghân-buri-ghân and to his folk, to be their own forever; and hereafter let no man enter it without their leave!"

When he had finished, he nailed the parchment and a map that outlined the boundaries of Drúadan Forest at an ancient oak tree that grew beside a fallen stone. As he stepped back, the drums rolled once more around us and went silent. Of Ghân-buri-ghân or his people we saw nothing at all.

But when we moved on in the morning, travelling on the Great West Road, following the boundaries of Drúadan Forest, the tiny hairs at the nape of my neck were prickling all the time as if unseen eyes were watching our every step.

Thus we passed into Sunlending or Anórien, the sun-lands of Gondor. I realized that the term sun-lands had to refer not only to the way the sun seemed to favour these fertile fields, but also the way the ripe grains shone golden on their stems as if they had been dipped into molten gold. Sun-lands, sun-fields were all around us, and if it was not golden wheat and barley or oats, there were fields of sunflowers just on the brink of losing their bloom.

We moved very slowly, because all the time we were stopped by farmers, villagers or other inhabitants of Anórien who wanted to do homage on to the king and swear fealty. There were also a number of complaints, minor conflicts about taxes or the ownership of land, which had to be sorted out and judged by Aragorn. But for the most part, people wanted simply to see their king and queen and cheer them along.

When the funeral wain passed them, the men bowed deeply, and the women sank into curtsies, all of them showing their respect to the dead king of Rohan.

We picked up speed when we crossed Mering Stream and entered Rohan. Although people were curious about the King of Gondor, their fealty belonged to their own king, so there were fewer holdups after we reached Rohan.

However, from the moment we had set foot on Rohirric ground, the road was lined with mourners waiting for the casket of Théoden King to pass them by. As the villages and farms of Rohan are scattered over wide stretches of country, people had to have travelled very far to make their last goodbye to the old king. But they were there. They lined every step of the road, on both sides of the road, and when the wain with the golden and black casket went by, they threw small white flowers at the casket, they bowed and curtsied, and many of them cried.

King Théoden Ednew had been well loved and admired by all his people.

Finally, on the seventh of August in 3019 of the Third Age, on the very brink of the Fourth Age, we reached Edoras.

Once again the town and the palaces were decked out with banners and garlands. Before Théoden could be laid to rest, he had to be welcomed home. This was done in a high feast that lasted three days. As long as the men of his personal guard laboured to prepare a funeral mound for the dead king.

I loved being back at Edoras.

But I kept away from the festivities. I had never met the old king, and somehow I felt strange about this custom to welcome a dead king with a huge celebration and then turn from feasting and frolicking to grieving and mourning as soon as the grave was ready.

As it had been decided that I should not be seen in public with Éomer yet, this was just as well. I stayed with Lady Míriël and Arwen who – as women and foreigners – did not participate in many of the festivities either, which centred on honouring the king as a warrior and a hero.

On the evening of the third day of celebrations, I stood with Éowyn on the terrace before the Golden Hall. As shield-maiden of Rohan, Éowyn had been deeply involved in the celebrations. Now she was pale and looked exhausted.

She followed my gaze beyond the walls of Edoras to the Barrowfield. The new mound was clearly visible. "Tomorrow morning my uncle will be interred. Tomorrow evening the names of the kings since Eorl the Young will be recited in the Golden Hall, with two new lines added to them for my uncle. And afterwards Éomer will be made king. He will swear blood-oath to his land and his people. Then he will be acclaimed by the lords of the Mark as their king,"  
Éowyn told me, her voice tinged with fatigue.

I pressed my lips together. Nothing more had been said about the Lord Grimsir and his plans.

"What about this Lord Grimsir? Do you know if he will interfere at the coronation?"

Éowyn rubbed at her temples. For a long moment she did not answer. "I have no idea. The feast and the funeral are not the place for politics. We will have to wait and see. But whatever he will do, Lothíriel, you have to be wary of him. He is more cunning than his younger brother ever was." Éowyn clenched her teeth and shuddered. The memory of Gríma Wormtongue was still the cause of nightmares for my friend.

_Politics and power plays_. I stared out to the Barrowfield across the thatched roofs of the town houses and prayed that everything would be alright, and that Lord Grimsir of Adornond would not become the source of my nightmares.

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N:**

Grimsir an austere, stern, morose, or overbearing person; first used in 1450, last recorded use of the word 1621 (The Shorter Oxford Dictionary, 3rd edition, Book Club Associates by arrangement with Oxford University Press, London 1983)


	60. The Funeral of Théoden Ednew XVII of Roh...

**60. The Funeral of Théoden Ednew XVII. of Rohan**

During the night clouds had blown up against the Ered Nimrais. Now the white peaks of the mountains were hidden completely. The clouds hung dark and low, heavy with rain. Accordingly, the morning of the tenth of August 3019 dawned pale, with a soft drizzle of rain. Above the river Snowbourn white mists were floating.

The bright banners and colourful garlands that had adorned Edoras and the Hall of Meduseld during the last three days had disappeared. The town and the surrounding countryside lay eerily silent and sombre in the cool light of early morning.

I was woken way before dawn to get ready for the funeral. In Rohan there was no tradition of wearing black to funerals, but women wore their hair braided and covered with scarves for the occasion. Éowyn took the time to braid my hair in the severe style of Rohirric women, creating a helm of braids coming together at the nape of my neck. My face looked long and bony that way, but Éowyn and Míri liked it. Since it was the proper way of wearing it for the funeral, I offered no further resistance.

Now I stood with Míri and Imrahil in a corner of the terrace in front of the palace, waiting for the ceremony to begin. A chilly breeze was blowing down from the mountains and tugged at my hair. I shivered. After the sunny weeks in Minas Tirith, I was not used to the cold winds of the mountains and the plains of Rohan anymore.

And what a bleak morning this was!

Granted that the weather was very fitting for a funeral, but this dreary atmosphere did nothing to dispel my apprehension about the politics concerning Éomer's coronation. Would the lords Grimsir and Eutharich turn the coronation and acclamation into a test of strength for the young king-to-be? Or would the presence of the King of Gondor dissuade them from their power plays?

**oooOooo**

Éowyn had explained the Rohirric laws of succession to me. The line of kings had been broken with Théoden's death. Éomer was the lord with the closest ties to the royal blood line. He had also been made heir to the throne by Théoden himself, according to the laws and customs of the Rohirrim. Consequently, there _should_ be no problem with Éomer ascending the throne––especially since no one had challenged his authority as a regent up until now, for almost five months.

_But_ the other five lords could trace their ancestry back to some king or other as well. Lord Grimsir, for example, was a descendant of King Gram the Grim. Therefore, until Éomer was crowned, the lords of the five provinces were his equals according to the laws and customs of Rohan: They would be carrying the bier together, and later at the wake, they would be sitting at one table. We would have to wait and see if they were content with that.

Of course, there had been no time to explain all the intricacies of the Rohirric laws and the snares of the current politics to me. I discovered that knowing a little is worse than knowing nothing. I was terribly worried––and that I did not even know exactly _what_ I should be scared of did not improve my mood at all.

It was possible that either Grimsir or Eutharich would claim that Théoden had not been sane after suffering from Saruman's spells and being brought back to his senses only by the spells and the power of another wizard. In that case, Éomer's position as Théoden's heir could be challenged. It was not likely, but it was possible. There was also the possibility that one of them might demand trial by ordeal to have the Gods confirm the new line on the throne of Rohan. There was also the possibility that nothing would happen at all.

Is it a wonder that I was worried that morning?

**oooOooo**

I shivered again. We had been standing here for half an hour now. The noble lords and ladies of Gondor and Rohan, as well as the lords and ladies of the Elves of Imladris and Lórien, gathered on the terrace in front of the Hall of Meduseld, were waiting patiently for the pallbearers to bring out the golden bier with the casket that held the dead king of Rohan.

"Are you cold, or are you worried?" Míri asked me in a low voice.

I tried to smile, and failed miserably. "Both," I whispered back.

Imrahil gave me a reassuring smile. "I don't think there will be any trouble, Lothíriel. Théoden died a hero, and Éomer fought in the greatest battle of our times. He also renewed a powerful alliance for his realm. I don't think they will be short-sighted enough to dispute his claim on the throne of Rohan."

I nodded gratefully, trying to get that small voice out of my mind that kept nagging me with a most annoying mantra: _shit happens, shit happens, shit…_

**oooOooo**

This time no drums or bells heralded the approach of the pallbearers. Without warning, the doors of the Golden Hall were thrust open. Six men emerged with slow, measured steps. On their shoulders they carried the black and golden casket on a gilded bier.

Éomer walked at the front, to the right-hand side of the coffin. His left-hand companion was a tall, thin man with black hair streaked liberally with silver, and grey, cold eyes under very pencil-thin, slanted eyebrows. His beard, trimmed into a spiky goatee, accentuated the sharp, stern lines of his face. His nose was bony and hooked. Lord Grimsir.

Just a man. He was just a man. Probably he had nothing to do with his brother's treason or the devilries of Saruman. I exhaled slowly. He was just a man, a man of power and politics. Just a man. Nothing more.

What the hell had I expected? Horns at his head and just one foot, with the other the cleft hoof of a goat? A pitchfork in his hand? The smell of sulphur wafting from him?

_Stop being an idiot, Lothíriel…_

Behind Éomer and Grimsir followed the friendly and familiar faces of Erkenbrand and Elfhelm. At the rear, one grey head, the other with strawberry-blonde, the Lords Berig and Eutharich marched, but their faces were hidden from my view.

Behind the coffin followed Merry, dressed as a squire of Rohan. He was carrying the dead king's weapons and his shield. The usually cheerful hobbit looked serious and sombre. He had loved the old king almost like a son loves a father and he missed Théoden sorely.  
After Merry came Éowyn, dressed as a shield-maiden in full Rohirric armour. She was pale and looked tired, and her keen grey eyes were filled with sadness at this final farewell.

Next came the company of the White Riders, the captains of the armies of Rohan on their proud steeds, followed by the King of Gondor and his Queen, both dressed in solemn dark grey silk. With them were Lord Elrond, Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn. Behind them, the rest of the Rohirric and Gondorian nobility joined the funeral escort, their heads bowed, their strides measured.

I walked with Míri and Imrahil. The footsteps of boots and slippers on the cobbled stone of the street, and now and again the soft sounds of women weeping were the only sounds that could be heard in all of Edoras.

Silently, the funeral escort wound its way through Edoras, following Théoden King as he was carried to his last resting place. Every citizen of Edoras, every man and every woman within its walls, and quite a number of families from further abroad, stood watching at the sides of the streets. Once we had passed them by, they fell into step behind us to follow their beloved king for one last time, the women with red-rimmed eyes, the men were grimfaced with grief. And the children stared wide-eyed, confused with no comprehension of what this solemn procession meant.

We passed the gates and left Edoras behind us. Just beyond the city-gates lies the Barrowfield, green grave mounds rising up on either side of the road. On the left side the first line of kings, on the right the second line of kings. With the passing of Théoden, it had come to an end now, too.

We walked to the very end of the Barrowfield, passing by seven green hills east of the road. When we reached the eighth mound, we halted. This grave was still open and empty.

But not for long now.

We waited until the escort of Elvish and mortal nobility spread out around the new mound, forming a silent half-circle and facing the dark opening of the tomb, and until the crowd had assembled at a respectful distance. Many were weeping openly, and not just women; quite a few proud warriors of the Rohirrim shed tears of their own for the brave and beloved king, who would be buried here today.

Then it was time. Éomer and the lords of the five provinces walked slowly to the new grave mound and placed bier and casket inside. Afterwards they went to stand in a line before the tomb and bowed deeply, their last tribute to the dead king. Until Éomer was crowned and acclaimed, the five lords were his equal. So they stood in one line, shoulder to shoulder. But Éowyn waited beside them, just a few feet away, her golden hair braided down her back and covered with a white scarf.

Next, Merry went to the grave, a small, stout figure with wind-tousled curls and solemn eyes, clad in the green tunic and the golden-brown leather armour of a squire of Rohan. The weight of Théoden King's weapons and shield that he carried in his arms slowed his steps. But the Hobbit never stumbled or faltered; he marched to the grave and carefully arranged the shield and the weapons on top of the coffin. Once he had accomplished his task, he walked to Éowyn's side. Together they stood, shield-maiden and squire of Rohan, sharing their grief in silence and without tears.

This was the signal for the White Riders, the finest warriors of the Rohirrim, to do their duty unto their dead king. They dismounted and strode to the grave. Along with a heap of grassy turves, stones had been set aside for the sealing of the grave. One after the other, the Riders took a stone and placed it into the dark opening of the grave. One after the other, the Riders carried a turf to the new wall, pressing it over the stones thus sealing the grave.

When they were finished, the eighth mound looked almost like the other seven graves in the eastern row, a small sombre hill covered with green grass. The only difference was that the white blossoms of evermind that flowered on the other graves with their star like blooms did not adorn this new mound yet.

The Riders bowed to the grave, their last service to their liege-lord completed.

**oooOooo**

Now Théoden King would be lamented in a song composed by his minstrel and sung by his White Riders.

For this purpose, the Riders mounted their horses and rode in slow circles around the barrow. The coat of their horses appeared misty and white in the twilight of this rainy day. Only now and then a hint of sunlight made shields and helmets of the Riders sparkle.

They circled the grave in a complicated formation of intertwining rows going in opposite directions at the same time.

Traditionally, the horses of the Éothéod share the lives of their riders as well as their deaths. The impact of this lament of horse and rider owed as much to the graceful round dance of the Mearas as to the deep, dark voices of their riders.

To the rhythm of the hooves beating against the grassy plain, their voices rose in the last song Théoden's minstrel Gléowine would ever compose.

It was a tale of the kings of Rohan, of course, recalling their deeds from Eorl the Young to Théoden Ednew; a slow, flowing lament of many years, and many kings, and many great deeds lost in time and memory.

As they completed circle upon circle and verse upon verse, silver-grey sheets of rain swept across the plains of Rohan. The mists above Snowbourn river danced and writhed.

Finally the next to last circuit around the barrow was heralded by the wailing sound of bagpipes.

As the riders reached the front of the barrow for the last verse, the bagpipes stilled. Deep and clear, the horn of Helm rang out across the plains.

As the notes died away, the clouds parted for the first time that day. The setting sun was already drenching the western sky in golds and reds. But above the Barrowfield, the air was still humid with the day's rains. Above the grave of Théoden, the sunbeams stood out sharply against the darker sky to the east. The golden rays appeared almost tangible as they hit the green turves that now covered the seventeenth king of Rohan in his eternal slumber. And at the edges of these unexpected rays of sunshine, the air sparkled in the prismatic colours of many rainbows.

The Riders rode on to finish their song.

_"Out of doubt, out of dark, to the day's rising__  
he rode singing in the sun, sword unsheathing.  
Hope he rekindled, and in hope ended;  
over death, over dread, over doom lifted  
out of loss, out of life, unto long glory."_

As one, the Riders halted their mounts and bowed low from their saddles one last time.

The sun seemed to brighten. Myriads of droplets clinging to the grass above Théoden's grave sparkled like diamonds scattered across the ground by an invisible holy hand.

Was this a sign from beyond? Was this meant to tell us that Théoden had arrived in the hallowed halls of his forebears unto long glory and eternal peace?

I don't know. But I sure hope so.

**oooOooo**

When the song of the Riders was finished at last, we turned away from the Barrowfield and walked back to Edoras in silence. At the Hall of Meduseld a great feast had been prepared for the wake of the late king. Now there would be no more tears and no more weeping, but instead many songs and many toasts remembering Théoden's deeds––for he had lived to long years and ended his life in honour no less than the greatest of his sires.

For the wake I sat with Míri and Imrahil. I could watch Éomer only from the distance.

He shared a table with the lords of the five provinces and Éowyn. Merry served them as his squire. Throughout the meal, I was preoccupied. The coronation would follow the naming of the kings after the wake. Worried anticipation kept me from even noticing what was served at the feast. But it must have been a good meal, all the same; even the Hobbits were replete afterwards, and quite content.

At long last the dinner was over and the last plate removed by the servants. Expectant silence filled the Golden Hall. Now the litany of kings would be sung.

Éowyn approached her brother, bearing a great golden goblet filled with mead and placed it on the table before him. After the litany Éomer would raise this goblet to the memory of the seventeen kings of Rohan, and every man and woman in the hall would drink to them.

Only when the past kings had been thus suitably honoured, Éomer would be made king.

He would swear the blood-oath of kingship, receive the crown of Rohan, and be acclaimed as king by all lords of the Rohirrim.

My heart was racing and my stomach felt queasy, as I watched a minstrel walk to the centre of the hall. I frowned. Wasn't that the same minstrel who had sung at the Field of Cormallen?

Yes, indeed, he must be––I was sure that I recognized the shaggy grey mane of hair tumbling down across his shoulders, the blind eyes covered with a stained linen cloth, and the mutilated hand. He was one of the travelling bards that roamed the roads of Middle-earth, offering their services to the kings and lords of the lands they passed through. It was unusual for a stranger to be asked to sing the litany of the kings, but remembering this singer's voice from Cormallen I knew why Éomer had asked him to sing tonight.

The blind bard stood tall and proud, holding his simple, ancient harp firmly in his left hand. The lines on his face deepened. For a moment I wondered if the wound on his palm still pained the old man. But then his voice rose to sing of the kings of Rohan, and I forgot everything else.

He sang in the Rohirric language as if he had been born to it. The style of the song was that of a ballad, held in melancholy minor chords with a deceptively simple melody. I did not understand what he was singing, of course, but it was beautiful. As his song filled the hall, the rugged faces of the assembled warriors grew still and full of awe. The music seemed to belong here, almost as if someone had kept singing the melody in the corners of the hall all the time, and I just had not noticed it before.

It was the song of the kingdom of Rohan and all its kings from the first to the last. The melody captured the essence of what it means to belong to the Rohirrim and to the Éothéod in its melancholy strain. But just how the song achieved this, I cannot tell, as I am no musician and at that time did not even understand the words of the song.

**oooOooo**

But this is––translated from the Rohirric at the cost of much rhyme and beauty––what the bard sang that night:

_"Hear now the names of the kings  
as of old the minstrel sings:_

_King of Kings and first was he,  
Eorl the Young of mighty bravery._

_Second was Brego, who built Meduseld,  
not by a sword but by grief he was felled._

_The third king crowned was Aldor the Old.  
He brought peace to Rohan seventy-five years all told._

_Fréa, the fourth king, too, was old,  
and gladly had no need to be bold._

_Frëawine was the fifth in line,  
on his rule the sun of peace did shine._

_The sixth king was Goldwine, the Fair,  
he ruled for nineteen years with never a care._

_Déor was the seventh king,  
Dunlendings during his reign war did bring._

_The eighth king was Gram, who was also called Grim,  
who fought all our foes until his eyes did grow dim._

_Ninth was King Helm of the Hammerhand,  
who through invasion and winter defended our land._

_With the tenth king, Fréalaf Hildeson,  
the second line of Rohan begun._

_Brytta Léofa was beloved by all, the eleventh king was brave and tall,  
and at his hands many orcs did fall._

_Twelfth king was Walda for only nine years,  
slain by orcs he is remembered with tears._

_Folca, the hunter, the thirteenth king  
died of a wild boar's deadly sting._

_Folcwine, the fourteenth, his own sons did send,  
the allied realm of Gondor to defend._

_Fengel, the fifteenth's rule was strict,  
no year went by without conflict._

_Thengel bore the sixteenth crown.  
He was a good and wise king of high renown._

_Théoden was the seventeenth king, and was known as Ednew.  
Neither danger nor sacrifice did he ever eschew."_

**oooOooo**

The bard fell silent and slowly drifted back into the shadows of the hall.

Éomer rose from his seat and raised his goblet. His hand was steady, his eyes calm.

"Hail the Kings of Rohan!" he cried in his clear, dark voice.

The assembled lords followed suit, rising from their seats and lifting their cups.

"Hail the Kings of Rohan!" they echoed Éomer's toast.

Thus they drank to the memory of the seventeen kings of Rohan.

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **The first song of this chapter is by Tolkien, the second is due to my own humble efforts at naming the kings of Rohan.


	61. Here Do I Swear

**61. Here Do I Swear**

Éomer put the goblet down in front of him and looked at Lord Grimsir.

The table of the five high lords of Rohan stood on the dais in front of the throne of Rohan. The long tables with the lesser nobility of Rohan and the guests from Gondor, Lórien and Imladris were placed at right angles to the dais, running down the entire length of the Golden Hall. In the great fireplaces to the left and to the right, huge fires were roaring against the nightly chill.

Now the time had come to elect, crown and acclaim the new king of Rohan. It was the right—and the duty—of the oldest lord to preside over the ceremony. Therefore it was Lord Grimsir, who would have the first say in the election of the third line of kings to sit on the throne of Rohan.

But would he choose as the old king had chosen with his dying breath? Or would he challenge Théoden's choice?

Éowyn stepped forwards once more and bade the servants to refill the goblets of the assembled. The servants hurried from table to table, pouring mead and wine and beer, so that every lord would be able to raise his cup when the new king of Rohan was elected by the traditional acclamation of _'Hail, King of the Mark'._ When every goblet was filled, Éowyn faded back into the shadows behind the throne. In this matter women had no say, not even the shield-maiden of Rohan.

On the dais Éomer sat still and relaxed. He had shoved his chair back a little, so that he could look Lord Grimsir straight in the eye.

The firelight brought out golden highlights in Éomer's hair. His eyes were almost black in the flickering lights of fire and candles. His face did not betray any hint of nervousness. He appeared to be calm and composed.

The hall was silent.

All faces were turned to observe the young king-to-be and the oldest and most powerful lord of the kingdom.

Grimsir set down his goblet, too. and gazed at Éomer now. In spite of myself, I had to admit that he was a striking man as well. I guessed him to be between fifty and sixty years old and aging well—he was lean and well-muscled. He wore his straight hair cut at shoulder-length. It was what they call _'salt and pepper',_ but there was more black than silver. His features were aquiline, not at all the weak, slobbering countenance I had expected from someone related to Gríma Wormtongue. But then, I had never seen Gríma in real life, so perhaps he did not look like a slimy git either.

Grimsir's eyes were of a very dark grey colour, intense and piercing. His mouth was wide, but his lips were too thin, as was his nose. There was a general air of sharpness to him, an aura of a keen intellect, and quite likely the instinct for power to go with it.

The oldest and most powerful lord of Rohan was taking his time. Although he knew Éomer from the day he was born, Grimsir now made a show of taking the measure of Éomer in a way he had never done before. Ostensibly, because now he had to look at Éomer as the man who wanted to be his king. He scrutinized Éomer with narrowed eyes. A faint, condescending smile played around his lips.

Éomer returned the look with equanimity—apparently unconcerned by this test of wills.

But he did not smile.

My heart was in my mouth, and under the table my hands were shaking, the palms cold and clammy. _Now what?_

Ordinarily, succession to the throne of Rohan was a simple thing. The eldest son of the dead king was the new king. Had the king died without an heir, the throne went to the eldest son of his brother. A relatively simple way of individual succession tied to the male line.

But this time there was no brother, no male heir. This time there was only the son of the king's sister.

In this situation of a new line ascending the throne, the king of Rohan was elected by the nobles of Rohan. The last time this had happened was two hundred sixty years ago. There was no established routine for the way the election should go. Although in theory every one of the two hundred something lords of Rohan would cast their vote, the decision hinged actually on the high lords of the five provinces.

To make things even more difficult, two of the high lords had been killed in the war, and according to the laws and customs of Rohan, Erkenbrand and Elfhelm could only succeed their fathers as high lords _after_ the new king had been crowned. Therefore the votes that would sway the decision of the assembled lords tonight lay solely in the hands of the lords Grimsir, Eutharich and Berig.

And Grimsir looked at Éomer and smiled.

He smiled. As if he wanted to say, _'You know that I could question the late king's sanity at the time he made you his heir. You know I could question your fitness for the throne, as one who was imprisoned for treason against the old king. I could ask for trial by ordeal, to ask Béma the Hunter to confirm the old king's choice. I could challenge you, and claim the throne for myself, as my ties to the throne go back to the first line of kings and yours only to the second—and even that only by your mother's blood.'_

Those unspoken words echoed through the hall. But Grimsir stayed silent, locking his gaze with Éomer, waiting.

_Waiting for what?_ Waiting for Éomer to flinch? To break eye-contact? To turn away blushing, like a boy? Or to order him to go on, to give him an excuse to voice any of the questions he could ask, to utter any of the challenges that were his right to make?

But Éomer only gazed back at Grimsir with his dark eyes calm, his features composed, even though he did not smile.

The silence lengthened.

I tore my eyes away from the test of strength taking place upon the dais and cast a quick glance at the lords assembled around the table where I was sitting with Míri and Imrahil. Aragorn was pointedly not looking at either Grimsir or Éomer. His hands rested on the table, folded, relaxed. Gandalf, seated next to Aragorn, was frowning; his blue eyes blazed with a fierce fire. If Grimsir had anything to do with Wormtongue's conspiracy, Gandalf would find out—and things would get really ugly for Grimsir. The faces of the Elves appeared as if carved from stone, white marble, untouched and unmoved by the petty power plays of mortals.

I turned my attention back to Éomer.

Although he still seemed completely at ease, I detected a faint tightness to the skin around his eyes and the muscles of his jaws.

If this staring contest went on for much longer, I would simply start screaming.

Couldn't Lord Grimsir simply say, _'No, I don't want you as a king'? _Did he absolutely have to turn this into an agonizing ordeal of staring and waiting?

When I thought I could bear the silence not another second, Grimsir's smirk suddenly deepened and turned into a semblance of an honest smile.

He rose from his seat and turned to the hall without sparing a glance for Éomer.

"My lords of Rohan, my ladies of Rohan, your royal highnesses, my lords and ladies of Gondor, my lords of Imladris, my lady and my lord of Lothlórien, my lord Mithrandir, my lords _Periannath._ King Théoden is dead. He died with no son to take the throne after him. But he did not die without an heir. On the Field of the Pelennor, he lifted his dying eyes to Éomer, son of Eomund, third marshal of the Mark, hailed him as King of the Mark and bade him ride to victory. And Éomer, son of Eomund, did as he was bid. Therefore I ask you, my lords of Rohan, to do now as Théoden, son of Thengel, bid us do: Lift your eyes to Éomer, son of Eomund, and bid him hail."

Grimsir raised his goblet. Only now he turned to Éomer. He held the goblet high. His posture proud, his voice clear and cool, he cried as he lifted his goblet to Éomer:

_"Hail, Éomer, King of the Mark!"_

A sigh swept through the hall like a storm wind rushing across the plains.

I gasped, twining my fingers together to keep my hands from shaking.

There would be no challenge.

There would be no trial by ordeal.

Even Éomer rose from his seat, the lords and nobles of Rohan jumped to their feet and lifted their goblets to Éomer, son of Eomund. Their voices echoed through the Hall of Meduseld like thunder as they cried, one and all, "Hail, Éomer, King of the Mark!"

Then the guests from near and far and the ladies of Rohan joined in, raising their cups, and calling to Éomer, "Hail, Éomer, King of the Mark!"

**oooOooo**

Éowyn stepped out of the shadows and directed the servants to bear away the table on the dais. This was swiftly accomplished.

Now Éomer would swear the blood-oath to the people and the kingdom of Rohan and receive the crown at the hands of the King of Gondor, just like Eorl the Young centuries ago.

Merry, as Éomer's squire, brought Éomer his sword, Asgar. Although Merry had grown taller than Éomer's elbows by the virtue of the ent-draught, he still had to lift his arms high to offer the sword to the new king. Éomer took the sword from the Hobbit's hands and gave him a small nod of thanks.

In one fluid movement Éomer unsheathed his sword. Silver sparkled. The blade gleamed sharp and deadly in the firelight. Éomer lifted the sword to salute the lords of Rohan.

Then he changed the sword from his right to his left hand, and drew the palm of his swear hand down the length of the blade in one firm stroke.

Crimson his blood swelled in his palm, running down the centre of his sword and dripping to the floor in front of the throne.

The floor of the Hall of Meduseld is made of stone, coloured in many hues and painted with runes and designs of ancient times. Just in front of the throne is one flagstone that is crimson in colour and ringed in black runes. At its centre the rune for 'sword' is placed. This is the stone on which the blood of every king of Rohan has dripped, binding them forever to their people and their land.

On this stone fell Éomer's blood in a soft crimson rain.

Again he changed hands. He held his sword aloft. Bright red shimmered the fresh blood on the silver blade. From Éomer's firm grasp around the sword's hilt, his blood was still flowing and dripping gently down onto the blood stone. His eyes shone fiercely, and his face glowed with the deep love he had for his people and his land. His voice was clear and warm with feeling as he made his oath.

_"Here do I swear by mouth and hands  
fealty and protection  
to the Kingdom and populace of Rohan  
to uphold the Laws of the Kingdom of Rohan  
to speak and to be silent  
to do and to let be  
to strike and to spare  
to punish and to reward  
in such matters as concern the Kingdom of Rohan  
in need or in plenty  
in peace or in war  
in living or in dying  
until I depart from my Throne  
or death take me  
or the world end.  
So say I, Éomer, son of Eomund."_

For a moment longer, he presented his sword to the lords of Rohan. Then he resheathed it in one fluid motion.

The foundations of the Hall of Meduseld shook with the roar of cheers that went up. The servants hurried forwards once more to refill all cups and glasses and golden goblets.

Then everyone was on their feet again, raising their cups, and crying as loudly as possible, "Hail, hail, Éomer King! Hail, Éomer, King of the Mark!"

When the voices died down, Lord Grimsir approached Éomer and bowed to him. Then he offered Éomer his arm to lead him to his throne.

The throne of Rohan is carved from black wood, gilded with gold and covered with an intricate design of runes and ornaments of a vaguely Celtic style.

Only when Éomer stepped foot on the dais of the throne, Grimsir stepped back. After he had thus placed Éomer on his throne, Grimsir bowed deeply to his king once more, and then walked backwards to the other four high lords of Rohan.

**oooOooo**

Now Aragorn would carry the crown of Rohan to Éomer.

Aragorn rose from his seat and walked with measured strides up to the dais. He was clothed as befit the occasion of the funeral earlier that day, wearing sombre silks of dark grey. But on his head the silver crown of Númenor glittered. Tall, dark and noble was he, and an air of power surrounded his every step; there could not be any doubt at all that this was the king of Gondor, and that he indeed was fit to place the crown of Rohan on Éomer's head.

Again it was Merry who acted as the squire to his king, bearing a crimson cushion embroidered in gold with the crown of Rohan resting on top of it to Aragorn.

Aragorn took the crown from the Hobbit and lifted it high, showing it to the gathered lords and ladies.

"Behold the crown of Eorl the Young!" he announced in his clear, northern accent.

The crown of Eorl was a simple ring, perhaps three fingers high, a heavy, golden circle carved with runes and Celtic ribbons and ornaments. At the front of this circlet a single white diamond was set.

A sigh of appreciation of the crown's beauty went up from the crowd, and Aragorn repeated, "Behold the crown of Eorl the Young!"

Then he turned to Éomer, who sat tall and straight on the throne of Rohan.

Éomer's golden and dun hair curled just a bit longer than his shoulder, his soft, well trimmed beard and his eyebrows a shade darker than his hair. His dark eyes still gleamed fiercely, but now his wide, full lips relaxed into a hint of a smile. He had the look of a king. Young he might be, but his figure was powerful, and his demeanour spoke of a deep and patient mind. Even at only twenty-eight years, he was formidable in appearance and bearing.

My heart was beating like a drum, and I thought I should melt just from looking at him, so kingly and noble and beautiful was he.

Aragorn knelt down before the throne and held out the crown to Éomer with the confirmation of the oath of Eorl, much as it had been spoken centuries ago by Cirion of Gondor.

_"Rië sina ar vandarya termaruva Elenna-nóreo alcar enyalien ar Elendil Vorondo voronwë. Nai tiruvantes I hárar mahalmassen mi Númen ar i Eru or ilyë mahalmar eä tennoio._

"This crown and its oath stand in the memory of the glory of the Land of the Star, and of the faith of Elendil the Faithful, in the keeping of those who sit upon the thrones of the West and of the One who is above all thrones for ever."

Éomer took the crown from Aragorn and placed it carefully on his head. The firelight reflected in the white diamond at Éomer's brow and made it shine like a star fallen down to the earth.

"I thank thee, my brother, and my friend."

Then Éomer rose to his feet and drew Aragorn up from where he knelt and embraced him and kissed him on the mouth to seal the friendship between Rohan and Gondor forever.

I only realized that I had been crying when Míri thrust a white kerchief into my hands.

I dried my silly tears and smiled at her. "It's only that I am so horribly relieved."

"I know, my dear, I know. As are we all," she replied warmly.

Now everything would be alright. Everything. Really, truly everything. Eru and all the Valar be praised. Praised with great praise!

**oooOooo**

Now one after the other, the lords of Rohan came forth to do homage unto the new king and plead their fealty to him.

The first to do so was Lord Grimsir, of course; the second Lord Berig, followed by Lord Eutharich. After them followed the Lords Erkenbrand and Elfhelm, who were first acclaimed as the successors of their fathers by the new king. Then followed every lord and noble sir of Rohan, more than two hundred all told.

The procedure was the same as the one I had witnessed in Minas Tirith when Éomer had renewed the Oath of Eorl. The lord placed his hands in Éomer's hands, hailed him, they kissed. Then the lord laid down his sword at Éomer's feet and swore fealty to his king, and Éomer accepted the oath with the traditional reply of _'I thank thee…'._

I did not mind that the procedure took such a long time, with the considerable number of lesser lords pledging themselves to Éomer. I needed that time to calm down! After I had dried my tears with Míri's handkerchief, I remained where I was for quite some time, clutching my empty goblet and drawing shaky breaths, willing my frantic heartbeat to slow down.

Finally Éowyn came over and placed a beaker with mulled cider in front of me. "Drink, silly girl. Everything's alright now. But Béma, am I grateful that you were right, my lord," she added to Prince Imrahil.

The Prince smiled at her. "I think we are all glad that the ceremony went smoothly tonight. Though I was certain it would. Grimsir is no fool. Eutharich, maybe; but not Grimsir. Now, my lady, how long until your own part in tonight's ceremonies?"

Éowyn blushed and glanced at the row of lords still waiting for their turn in front of the throne. A small, nervous smile flickered across her face. "A while yet, my lord, but hopefully will be tonight, and not tomorrow."

To me she whispered, "It better be tonight. Or I will throttle my brother, king or no king."

I gulped down a swallow of the hot cider and found that I could smile again. I grinned at my friend. "Don't worry. I don't think your brother will forget about your betrothal. Not with the longing looks you keep exchanging with Faramir."

Éowyn blushed even harder. Faramir, who was sitting with the sons of Elrond a few seats down the table, suddenly turned his head, and his eyes lit up, gleaming almost blue as he noticed his beloved's proximity. Éowyn inhaled sharply. "He'd better not forget my betrothal. Or I'll do more than just look…"

Then she was gone, to deal with yet another matter concerning the organization of the feast.

Next to me, Míri shook her head. "I do hope Éomer won't forget that he promised to announce her betrothal tonight. If ever I saw a girl wanting to be properly wedded and bedded, it's Éowyn. She might just dare and truly do more than look if he did forget his promise."

I grinned and nodded at Faramir, who was still looking into our direction, his expression soft and dreamy. "But Faramir wouldn't—he's an honourable man. You needn't worry."

Then I took a second look at Faramir's face and noticed that—while his face seemed soft and peaceful—his eyes were blazing. Míri followed my gaze and raised her eyebrows.

_"Uhmm…_ Probably anyway," I amended wryly before I turned back to watch my Éomer on his throne, clasping hands with, and kissing one of his lords after the other.

I felt Míri shake her head beside me and mutter something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like "If he 'forgets', it won't be Éowyn throttling him, not if I can get to my hands on him first…"

**oooOooo**

At long last homage unto the new king and the pledging of fealty was duly completed.

Éomer looked a little tired, his lips slightly red from kissing so many bristly faces. I promised myself that I would only kiss Éomer again after he had brushed his teeth and gargled with some high-proof liquor.

When everyone had settled down again at the long tables, and the servants had refilled the cups and goblets once more all around, Éomer rose from his throne.

I felt a smile creep up on my face. He had not forgotten. His gaze roamed the hall, searching for Éowyn and Faramir. Éowyn was hesitating in the shadows to the side of the hall, waiting beside a great pillar carved with spiralling lines and gilded in gold. She had removed the demure scarf from her head. Even in the shadows her hair gleamed brighter than the gold spread on the wood of the pillars and the throne. Faramir had moved his chair back from the table, his hands placed palm downwards on his knees. His lips were pressed into a thin, nervous line.

A broad smile appeared on Éomer's face. "Now, albeit this is the funeral feast of Théoden king ere we take our leave tonight, I shall speak of tidings of joy, for I am certain he would not grudge that I should do so, since he was ever a father to Éowyn, my sister. Hear then, all my guests, fair folk of many realms, such as have never before been gathered in this hall! Faramir, Steward of Gondor, and Prince of Ithilien, asks that Éowyn, Lady of Rohan, should be his wife, and she grants this full willing. Therefore they shall be trothplighted before you all."

At his words Éowyn came forth from the shadows and Faramir walked up the aisle in long strides. Together they came before Éomer King and took each other's hand. Éomer placed his hand on their hands and spoke low words of blessing. Then he took his golden goblet from Merry and raised it to Faramir and Éowyn.

"Here are Éowyn, the Lady of Rohan, and Faramir, Steward of Gondor, and Prince of Ithilien, and ere a year is out they shall be married. So say I, Éomer King. Now, join me and praise them. Praise them with great praise. Hail, Éowyn and Faramir!"

Once again everyone rose to their feet and lifted cups and glasses in a toast. A many voiced cheer echoed through the hall. "Praise them! Hail, Éowyn and Faramir!"

And of course I was in tears again.

**oooOooo**

With Éowyn's and Faramir's betrothal, the feast had come to an end. Slowly the great Golden Hall emptied until only Éomer King, his closest friends and the guests of honour remained.

"Thus," Éomer told Aragorn, coming to stand with the King of Gondor at the fireside, "is the friendship of the Mark and of Gondor bound with yet another bond, and the more I do rejoice."

He smiled at Éowyn and Faramir who walked towards them, still holding each other's hands, their cheeks flushed and their eyes bright with happiness.

Aragorn smiled, too, but his smile was slower and almost solemn. "No niggard are you, Éomer," he said, "to give thus to Gondor the fairest thing in your realm."

"Not quite, my friend, not quite," Éomer retorted, beckoning to me to join them at the fire. My stomach did a serious somersault, but I went over to Éomer, and he took my hand and held me tightly. "You will also have to part with a fair thing—and one only just come to your realm— if I have my way. And I mean to have her."

He drew my hand to his lips. I barely could suppress a gasp. His lips were hot and silky on my cold hand.

"Then both of us have twice the reason to rejoice," Aragorn replied, and his smile grew warm and easy as he looked first at me, and then at Éowyn and Faramir.

Éowyn let go of Faramir's hand and curtsied before Aragorn. "Wish me joy, my liege-lord and healer!" she asked, her voice unusually soft.

Aragorn drew her from her curtsy, embraced her and kissed her. Then he turned to Faramir and embraced his steward and kissed him also. "I have wished thee joy ever since first I saw thee. It heals my heart to see thee now in bliss."

Arwen, Aragorn, Éomer, Faramir, Éowyn and I spent another few hours in comfortable easy chairs in front of the fireplace in Éomer's study, talking about the events of the day, and the many partings which the next days would bring.

But although many of these partings would be sad and some would last forever, that evening there was no sorrow in our hearts, but only contentment at the way events had ended in harmony and bliss today.

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N:** The oath is taken from the heralds of the "Kingdom of the West", I think it belongs to the Society of Creative Anachronism, but I'm not sure. Oh, and in "Unfinished Tales" (birthday present from my husband) I discovered the real words to the Oath of Eorl as the good Professor wrote them down. But I like my efforts from chapter 48, so I won't go back and change my oath to the one Tolkien wrote… the meaning is the same anyway.

For the coronation I read up on the writings of Widukind of Corvey who in the year 968 described the coronation of Otto I. in Aachen (936). It's really interesting.


	62. Why Should I Need a Reason

**Dedication:** This one's for my husband, because he needs no reason either.

* * *

**oooOooo**

**62. Why Should I Need a Reason?**

When I woke, I was all fizzy and squiggly and wiggly with happiness. But I did not jump out of my bed. I drew up the covers around me and huddled into the warmth. I was warm and happy through and through, from my head to my toes. I wanted to savour that feeling.

I was back in the small room in the palace of Meduseld where I had first woken after Éomer had rescued me from ending up first as the main act in an orc orgy and then as the main course in a barbecue. I was back in this room for the third time, actually. By now it felt like home.

The light was dim. The weather had probably not improved since yesterday, and the small stained window panes softened even the most brilliant summer sunshine. There was still not much to the room—just the wardrobe, the bed, a nightstand, a table and a chair, and the chest of drawers. White washed walls and a smooth wooden floor, the faint fragrance of lavender and roses from the wooden bowl of potpourri on the table. But I felt at home here. At home and at peace.

_Time to take stock,_ I thought. _Here I am, Lothíriel, the failed law student, sitting on a straw-stuffed mattress in a palace immeasurably far away from the Franconian hills where I had started out in August 2004._

_Here I am, Lothíriel, the girl who walked with the fellowship._

_Here I am…_

I was not exactly unscathed. _Neither physically,_ I mused, as I glanced at the pink scars around my wrists and ankles, nor where my heart and my mind were concerned. The memory of my last view of Boromir rose unbidden in my mind. And there was the question concerning the other Lothíriel that I still had not had the courage to ask. No, not unscathed. Nor unchanged. But here I was.

And on the chair in front of the small table in the corner was my old backpack. Its camouflage pattern had faded and the fabric was frayed around the edges. But it was still there. As was my sleeping bag, though my therm-a-rest had not made it beyond Amon Hen. I did not mind, as Aragorn had saved my most precious possessions from the disaster at Amon Hen, namely my sword _Tínu_, my dagger, the Elvish jewel from Glorfindel, the scarf from Gily, and the book Lady Galadriel had given me as a farewell gift.

Now my backpack also held the leather bound journal Míri had given to me at Dol Amroth, when we had waited for the world to end in March, and the two small gems Glorfindel had sent me. I had to grin in spite of myself. As fairy tales go, this quest was not exactly a success for me in the way of worldly treasures. Although I had to admit that the few things I mentioned meant more to me than anything I ever owned back home.

_And for the other kind of treasure that comes with fairy tales…_ I felt my heart thumping heavily in my chest. Sudden butterflies fluttered in my stomach, making me feel ever so tingly all over. A king to take _me_ as his wife! I sat on my bed, the covers drawn closely around my body and shook my head at myself. _I never even liked that kind of fairy tale! _

Yet here I was—and Éomer now actually had the kingdom he wanted to offer me.

But would he?

That thought made me finally slip out from under my covers, wash and dress in one of my Rohirric outfits (comfortable leather trousers, a soft leather tunic and a green silk shirt). Due to the magical powers of Lady Darla of the Golden Scissors and the generosity of Míri, my wardrobe had improved marvellously.

When I was ready, I was more than adequately dressed for the palace of Meduseld. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't think that clothes are really important—apart from keeping you warm in winter or dry during rain—but wearing nice clothes in a palace is a big help for not to feeling completely out of place.

Silently thanking Míri and the genius of Darla, I opened the door and left my room in search for something to eat and some company.

Have you ever heard of Murphy's Law?

Two minutes after I had thought that I might actually look nice and palace-like in my new clothes I ran into Arwen.

_Sigh._

She did not have that other-worldly, Elvish kind of beauty anymore that made any mortal woman feel like a mole in her company anymore. But she was still the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life. However, compared to Lothíriel on most other days, I still looked nice . I would have to content myself with that.

Arwen smiled happily when she saw me. "Oh, Lothíriel, how wonderful that I have found you! I thought you'd never wake up."

"Why?" I asked, feeling a little confused.

Arwen blushed prettily, her cheeks acquiring that lovely rosy shade that you never quite manage with make-up. "I wanted to ask you something."

"What did you want to ask me?" I still had no clue what she was on about, or I would have simply turned around and ran for it.

"Well, Éowyn and I had breakfast together, and we talked about…" Her cheeks flushed even more. "And… _ahem…_ did you already have something to eat?" She gave me an innocent look.

From the way she blushed and suddenly changed the topic of the conversation, it finally dawned on me: The Queen of Gondor wanted to talk about…

A choked noise escaped me. "No," I managed to croak. "No way. I will not answer any questions Éowyn might have implied I could answer. No way."

"Really?" Arwen sounded disappointed. "I wanted to surprise Aragorn with something new tonight…"

Now it was my turn to blush. _Éowyn, I am going to wring your bloody neck._ I took a deep breath. _If I did this, Aragorn would owe me._

Suddenly I felt my lips quiver with a smile. "You know what? Let me have some breakfast —_hmm_— lunch, I guess, and I promise I'll think about this."

Arwen was not inclined to leave me alone while I considered her request. Éowyn wisely did not make an appearance.

When I had finished my stuffed pancakes, I poured us large cups of tea. Then I turned to Arwen. She was waiting impatiently, twirling and untwirling a strand of her hair.

I couldn't keep a silly grin from my face. "Now, tell me, what have you two been up to—and was it any good?"

_I am a good girl. And I try to be a good friend. So I won't give any more details here. I will only say this: oh, my…_

_But nevertheless, Aragorn will owe me…_

**oooOooo**

We were in a study close to the Golden Hall, so we could not help hearing Éomer's angry roar in the middle of the afternoon. It sounded very much like: "Get the hell out of here! All of you!" Or something remarkably similar.

Arwen jumped a little at this outburst of a fiery mortal and male temperament. Then she looked at me uncertainly. "Don't you want to go and find out what's the matter?" she suggested shyly.

"Don't you Elves ever lose your temper?" I retorted.

Arwen lowered her eyes. The blue-grey of happiness disappeared behind a veil of sorrow. "Yes," she answered. "We do." Then she gulped. _"They do."_ She gave me a wavering smile. "But… _they_ don't do it that very often. Perhaps once in five hundred years?"

I gently touched her arm. "I'm sorry, Arwen. I didn't think just now."

Her smile warmed. "It's… how do you say? Oh-kay? It's okay—it… just takes getting used to. But I _still_ think you should go to Éomer."

I was not so sure about that. But I went.

**oooOooo**

I ran right into Éomer as he was storming out of the Golden Hall. For a second he looked as if he wanted to shout at me, too. Then relief spread across his face. "Lothíriel!" Relief was also palpable in his voice. "I have to get away from here for a bit. Would you go for a ride with me? That is, if you think it appropriate?"

"Well, Míri certainly won't think it appropriate, but I think I'll make an exception to save anyone else from being shouted at by a king in a bad temper," I told him, tilting my head to the side with an inquiring look.

He shook his head. "Not now. Let's get out of here, before I tell you what got on my nerves." Éomer grabbed my hand and hurried to the door.

He did not speak all the way to the Royal Stables, but he also did not let go of my hand—with the usual result of my stomach somersaulting. Even the slightest touch, even the slightest whiff of this spicy fragrance that I'd taken to calling _'eau d' Éomer'_ in my mind, and I felt mad with desire.

We quickly saddled Hiswa and Mimi and galloped out of the Gate of Horses.

**oooOooo**

Éomer was sure in a bad mood. He galloped away from the mountains, giving Hiswa his head, allowing the great stallion to run where he would, and as fast as he would. Even Mimi could not keep up with Hiswa running like that, so I decided not to try and followed at a much slower speed, keeping up just enough to know where Éomer was going.

He was leading us along the Snowbourn River, staying on the northern side of the river, where the wide plains of the West Emnet rolled away to the horizon in green and golden waves of grass. Finally he slowed down. Abruptly, without giving any notice in advance, he slid down from the saddle. The banks of the Snowbourn River were rocky here, the river down below fast and cold, even though it was the middle of summer. Behind us stretched the plains of the Emnet, before us the softer fields and gentle hills of the Eastfold, and behind them the great heights of the Ered Nimrais. Much as yesterday, the peaks of the mountains were hidden by clouds. But there was no rain today, and I thought there were less clouds and more wind, clearing away the bad weather.

I dismounted, too, securing the reins to allow Mimi to walk about and graze as she wanted. Éomer sat in the grass above the river. His face was calm again. I was relieved. I had not liked it at all to see him so upset for no apparent reason. He lay down on his back, his eyes gazing up into the sky. I sat down close to him, cross-legged and intrigued.

"What was this all about, back at Meduseld?" I dared to ask.

"Grimsir," Éomer hissed through clenched teeth. "Not that I am not grateful that he respected Théoden's wishes yesterday, and refrained from causing any problems… but I should have known that he would even use his silence against me. He wants to have a reform of our structure of government. On my first day as a king. He wants to turn our customs and laws upside down before I even had a chance to study them."

Éomer put his arm across his eyes. "Béma! How I wish I had paid more attention to my tutor as a boy!"

"What does he want?" I asked calmly, although inside I felt almost sick with apprehension. Yesterday _had_ been too good to be true. _Why is it that you never get off that easily in real life?_

Éomer sighed. "What does he _not_ want? Apart from me as his king? He wants to be responsible for almost anything in his province; he wants to make his own laws, he wants his own taxes, he wants his own bureaucrats… Though I have no idea why anyone would want _that._ Perhaps I should just let him have what he wants, just so that he leaves me in peace."

"Sounds to me as if he wants to introduce federalism to Rohan," I commented.

"As if he wants to do what?" Éomer sat back up and looked at me with a frown.

"Federalism. When a province is not a province in a centralized state, but more like a small state within a state. A federal state to the nation as a whole. There are a number of countries where I come from where federalism works very well. The country where I was born, for example." I thought about it for another moment. "But I don't think federalism will work if there is not a history of regional political structures to begin with. And correct me if I'm wrong, but I have the impression that Rohan as _a whole_ is the smallest real political entity for this area."

Éomer stared at me, non-plussed. Then he nodded. "That's true. During the early centuries the _Éothéod _were more or less tribes moving with the herds. Eorl was the one who changed that. Only since he fought the battle of the Celebrant and was granted kingship, Rohan has been a realm of its own, and not just a province of Gondor."

"Then I don't think it will work really well," I said. "But to be sure I would have to know a lot more about the way the government of Rohan works. Do you get to decide everything? What is the function of the _Thing,_ and the Council? And what is the structure of the current administration?"

Éomer groaned. "Do you realise that you know more than I do about ruling?"

I frowned at him. "How governments work maybe. And not about Rohan."

Éomer sighed. "No, not about Rohan, I realise that. But the questions you just asked… I don't even know how to ask the right questions!"

"Well, I did mention that I studied the laws of the country where I was born for four years, didn't I? Even if I did not really enjoy it, I did work hard, and I was pretty good at it."

"I will need your help, Lothíriel," Éomer said, suddenly very serious. "I never cared for politics. I left that to Théodred—who had to do it, because he was the son of the king— and to Éowyn. She actually enjoys scheming and strategising. _But now…_ I have to do what is right for Rohan. For all of Rohan, for all the Rohirrim. And I find there are only few that I can trust. Even after a single day, I feel burdened by this responsibility. What if I make the wrong decisions?"

I chewed on my lower lip. _What if… _one of my least favourite questions. "For the time being, I would suggest to tell Grimsir that there won't be any reforms during your first year as the king. There is enough to do as it is, with so many dead and so many maimed or still recovering from their wounds… not to mention the property that was destroyed by Saruman's and Sauron's hordes." I shuddered when I thought of the tales I heard from some of the soldiers.

Éomer nodded. "That's more or less what I just told Grimsir and the others. Grimsir and Eutharich tried to wangle out of it. I can count myself lucky that Berig wants no reforms, but time to repair the damages done to his villages at the moment. But when those two simply would not take _'no'_ for an answer…"

Suddenly Éomer moved a little closer to me. The tension around his eyes had eased, and there was a soft, self-deprecating smile on his lips. "And all the time those fools were arguing I only wanted to see you. I think that is what really made me lose my temper in such an undignified manner. I woke this morning, and I felt so relieved that this day had finally come, and then it seemed to me that I would never be able to spend even a minute with you today. I felt like screaming, I wanted to get away from all those… politicians so much." He could not come up with a worse epithet than _'politician'. _I could not help smiling.

"You did scream, you know. You frightened Arwen."

"Really?" Éomer frowned. "I'm sorry. It was not on purpose. But let's not talk about everyone and everything else right now. I wanted to come here with you for a reason."

His eyes were so dark and so warm that I thought I should simply melt away under his gaze. His full, sensuous, inviting lips were so close. So _kissable_ close! Suddenly all thoughts but 'Éomer' were gone from my mind. My heart was beating like one of those big Rohirric drums; my blood was like fire in my veins.

But he did not kiss me. I could see the thrill of our closeness burn in his eyes. But he only smiled. "This was one of my favourite spots as a boy," Éomer told me. "I used to swim in the river. And there was a small herd of _Mearas_ that used to come to drink here, right over there. The herd I got Hiswa from." A dreamy expression softened his features. "It's the greatest dream of every boy among the Rohirrim to get a _Meara_ foal… I think you know that Mearas are reserved for those Riders of the Mark who can claim to be of royal blood?" I nodded.

"No matter how distant the relationship," Éomer smirked. "So most noble boys have a fair shot at becoming the rider of a _Meara._ And even a common boy's dream is not completely hopeless… If a mare allows you near when she gives birth, she acknowledges you as kin—and thus, as one of royal blood. But approaching a _Meara_ when she's near her time is a dangerous and difficult thing to accomplish. But this herd, they knew me. They allowed me to stay. And it was a miracle. The mare gave birth to two foals, two stallions. Hiswa and a white foal. Hiswa's brother leads the herd now. But their guardian told me they don't come so close to Edoras anymore. The war and those damn orcs have made them wary of all that moves on two legs."

Éomer fell silent, and for a moment we looked across the river together, in silence and peace. Éomer's face was soft and vulnerable with the memory of his boyhood dream coming true at this very spot. Suddenly he turned to me and gave me a gentle, hesitating smile. "Somehow I hope that this place holds some kind of magic. That, if the greatest wish of my childhood came true here, perhaps the greatest wish of Éomer King may also come true here." Éomer reached for my right hand. "Will you marry me, Lothíriel?"

My heart skipped a beat.

Two beats.

Make that three.

I tried to come up with a deeply romantic answer. Something moving and meaningful.

"Yes," I said softly.

Suddenly I was in Éomer's arms, being showered with enthusiastic kisses, which turned more languorous as I opened my lips to him.

Finally we broke apart, our faces flushed, gasping, and our hearts racing.

"No," Éomer moaned. "Not this way. I mean to honour you, my love, after the laws and customs of my people. Not yet, my sweet. Not yet."

"A year and a day?" I asked, breathlessly, wondering how I would survive that long.

Éomer smiled and kissed me again, but quite chastely on my cheeks and temples. "A year and a day, my love."

Then he reached into the pocket of his tunic. "I asked Gandalf about how things are done where you came from, and he said that it's done like the Elves do, with a ring, only that it's the man who gives a ring to his betrothed. Is that right?"

I could not speak. There was such a big lump of happiness lodged in my throat. _He had asked Gandalf how a man betrothed a woman in the world where I was born! _I nodded mutely, dashing away tears of happiness that still spilled out of my eyes.

"I am not a great artist. But I wanted to give you something that was really mine. —If you don't like it, I will have another one made for you… silver or gold…" He quickly slipped a ring on my right hand.

I looked at my hand and gasped. I had never seen such a ring before. It seemed to be made from threads of silver, and green-golden pearls glittered at the front of the ring.

"I braided it from some of Hiswa's tail hairs and some amber pearls from the Sea of Rhûn," he explained, looking at me nervously.

"It's beautiful," I whispered.

"Then why are you crying?" Éomer reached out and gently wiped away my tears.

"I think I'm just too happy not to," I answered and leaned against him. Carefully I removed the ring and put it on my left ring finger.

"Did I get the wrong finger?" Éomer frowned.

"For a girl from Germany, yes," I replied and found that I could grin at him again. The moment of crying was over. Now only I felt happy. Happier. _Happiest._

"Left ring finger for engagement, right one for marriage. But for marriage the man gets one, too," I elaborated.

Éomer nodded, his expression one of satisfaction. "Gandalf was right about that at least, then."

"I guess he had other things on his mind than noticing which ring was on which finger during his stays in Germany," I excused the wizard's mistake.

"Perhaps," Éomer admitted grudgingly. Then he drew me into a tight embrace. Laying his lips soft and warm against my temple, he whispered to me, and the touch and his hot breath made me shiver against him and my nipples pucker up and rise against the fabric of my shirt, "But you do like the ring?"

My answer was a gasp. Éomer chuckled. He enjoyed making me gasp.

We stayed like that for a long time, sitting in a warm embrace, head touching head, hands intertwined, but nothing more. Nothing inappropriate. When the sky grew dark with dusk, I finally drew away from Éomer. The ring felt tight and good around my finger. I stared at Éomer, at this wonderful man, warrior, rider, singer and dancer, at my fiancé. It was almost impossible to believe that this was really true. That this was really happening to me.

"Why?" I asked, my voice full of wonder. "Why do you love me?"

Éomer looked at me for a long moment. Then he drew my left hand to his lips and kissed it, his lips lightly caressing my fingers. After an even longer moment that ended with me gasping once again, and with a delighted smile growing on Éomer's face, he answered my question.

"Why should I need a reason to love you?"


	63. Maybe, Maybe Not

**63. Maybe, Maybe Not**

We took our time returning to Edoras.

In three days most of the guests who had come with us to Edoras would leave. Elrond and his sons and their entourage would return to Imladris, the Lady Galadriel and the Lord Celeborn and their people would go back to Lórien and the hobbits would travel the long way to the distant Shire. Gandalf would accompany them at least to the borders of the Shire, so they should get there safely.

But because of this, the next few days would be busy. We wanted to spend as much time with our friends as possible before we had to say goodbye – especially since some of these goodbyes would be forever and even the others would be for a long time. Tomorrow there would also be a session of the Council of the High Lords of Rohan and to add to Eomer's already busy schedule the Lords Grimsir, Berig and Eutharich had called for yet another Thing to convene. That would not be so bad. Eomer could use the Thing to set things in motion the way **he** wanted them to go. But this would take careful preparation. In other words, a lot of work for my betrothed.

Therefore we walked the horses back, keeping them close to each other, so that we could see our faces in the dim twilight of this cloudy evening. But I was right, the clouds were dispersing. Above the plains of the Mark the sky was already clear again. Only above the mountains and the foothills the clouds were still thick and grey. Tomorrow the sun would shine again.

So we made our way back to Edoras slowly, looking at each other every other moment with soft lingering smiles. If we had ridden normal horses, we would not have accomplished the ride without mishap, so engrossed were we in each other, so much strayed our attention away from the path. But Hiswa and Mimi are Mearas, and very fine ones at that. They were very understanding of their riders.

But finally we were back at the Royal Stables.

Eomer dismounted, and this time he bade a groom come over and take care of our horses.

He reached out for my hand and drew me close. "I would that we announce the betrothal this very night. I could not and would not keep it secret anyway, filled with the joy of it as I am – but the matter of my marriage is bound to come up in the Council tomorrow, and I would ask you to spare me needless discussions of possible matches. Because for me there is only one match, my love. The lady who wears my humble ring so proudly on her hand."

I have to admit that I had to hold out my hand and look at the ring time and time again – and every time I did so, I felt a huge foolish smile on my face.

"Everything to ease your day, Eomer," I whispered and laid my head against his shoulders. "Even if it will still be a year and a day until my nights are eased."

He chuckled at that, a deep rumble in his chest that made me shiver against him. How I would love to lie naked across his chest and listen to that deep rumble in his depths, with my ear pressed against his chest. He kissed me behind the ear then and murmured in his deepest, most erotic of voices, "Don't even mention those long and lonely nights, my dear, or I might do something both of us would regret."

_I don't mind a little regret now and again…_, I thought. But I did not object, only sighed softly.

How love struck people can sigh!

Softly, hotly, desperately – we shared sighs of desire and sighs of closeness and sighs of laughter…

I should compose a poem about the way you can sigh when you are in love and happy with it.

"How are you going to announce our betrothal, Eomer? Is there some Rohirric ritual that I should know about beforehand?" Arwen's wedding had made me cautious.

Eomer grinned at me. I believe he was remembering about the same thing as I was. He shook his head. "No; it will be simple. Much the way as it went with Faramir and Eowyn. There is only one thing. Lord Grimsir will have to be the one to announce it. It is his due as the oldest lord. Although I would much prefer Aragorn to join our hands before all, it really isn't possible. The affront would be too much."

I sighed (again). "There's nothing to be done about that. I understand."

And I did understand. Much as Eomer loved me, and I knew that he did, his love to his country and his people would always take precedence to the love we shared.

That's what you get when you fall in love with a king. Political headaches most every day. This king and queen business is not at all the way it is described in those damn fairy tales.

I should sue the brothers Grimm…

* * *

Lord Grimsir was not amused.

I was glad that we had not gone to face him on our own, but with the Prince of Dol Amroth, the Lady Míriël, Gandalf and King Elessar of Gondor. Our company had not really improved Lord Grimsir's mood. But it did reassure me and it caused him to clench his teeth and keep his comments to hissed "Very well's" and "Congratulations, your highness".

They told him that I had been summoned by Gandalf to travel from a distant realm to give aid to the fellowship. That I would be adopted by the Prince this fall and that King Elessar felt personally responsible for my fate.

I think I would have preferred them to lie… and perhaps say that I was really the daughter of the Prince of Dol Amroth… but I knew all too well that such lies have an unfortunate tendency to make it to the tabloids, or the gossip lane, respectively. It is a good thing, however, that no one, absolutely no one dares question a white wizard and the King of Arnor and Gondor.

From a formal point of view there could be no objection to me as a suitable wife for Eomer – because of the adoption. Being a heroine of the famous fellowship was another perk. But Grimsir's frown made me realize that I would do well to produce an heir to the throne as quickly as possible once Eomer and I were married, to keep the bloodhounds off my trail nevertheless.

Of course, as far as I knew only Gandalf, Eomer, Faramir, Eowyn, Aragorn, Arwen, Sorcha, Imrahil and Míri had all the details of my background. But there is the old rule that anything that is known to more than one person, will get out. There is always a servant who listened when he shouldn't have. Or a neighbor. Or whoever.

_Perhaps Gandalf could cast a spell to prevent any details from leaking out?_

I wrinkled my nose thoughtfully. _Probably not._

Back to plan B. Marry and get pregnant with a boy that will cause amnesia among even the grimmest lords of Rohan and Gondor.

Right.

When we had eaten dinner, Lord Grimsir rose and walked to the dais of the throne of Rohan. He cleared his throat. The hall fell silent.

"Only yesterday we were blessed to do homage unto the new king of Rohan. Tonight it is my pleasure to announce that even the very first day of the reign of Eomer King is blessed indeed. Tidings of joy I bring to the people of the Rohirrim. Hear then, my lords and my ladies, fair guests: Eomer King of Rohan asks that Lothíriel Princess of Dol Amroth should be his wife. What says her father to this suit, my lord Prince of Dol Amroth?"

Prince Imrahil walked up to the dais. It was quite a sight, the darkest and the fairest of the lords of Rohan and Gondor side by side.

"I, Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, say to this suit that the match has my favor. Eomer King of Rohan has asked that Lothíriel Princess of Dol Amroth should be his wife, and she grants this full willing."

Grimsir looked positively grim at that. Probably he had a daughter of the right age back at home. But he continued. "Then they shall be trothplighted before you all, to be wed in a year and a day, by the will of all the Valar and Eru."

Eomer walked up to the front. Eowyn, who was sitting next to me, gave me a small push in the same general direction that almost made me stumble and fall down. But only almost. I reached the dais and Eomer without any further mishap.

As I looked at Eomer's face, his warm dark eyes and his calm smile, all my misgivings about politics and gossip disappeared into a dizzy feeling of pure bliss.

Eomer held out his hand towards me, and I took it without a moment's hesitation.

He turned me around to the face the hall and raised our joined hands high, for all to see.

Applause and cheers rang out, and then everyone was up and lifting their glasses to us, crying: "Eomer and Lothíriel, Lothíriel and Eomer, bless them, bless them."

* * *

When I woke the next morning, I felt strange. I felt strange, because I did not feel any different at all. I know this is silly. I am old enough to know that such things do not change us from one hour, one day to the next. But somehow I had imagined that I would feel different, being engaged to the king.

Well, something was different that day. As I had thought, the bad weather had cleared away during the night, and a bright summer sun bathed all of Rohan in a warm golden light. The stained glass windows of my room made the opposite wall sparkle with all the colors of the rainbow.

_At the end of the rainbow you may find your greatest treasure…_

I held up my left hand. Green and gold shimmered the exquisite amber pearls in the soft light that filtered through the round window panes. Silver glittered the elaborately braided hairs that held the pearls around my finger. It was a beautiful ring. I wondered when Eomer had made it. It must have taken hours to create this intricate work of art.

A happy sigh filled me.

He had made this ring with his own hands. He had made this ring while he thought of me.

He had filled every tiny braid of it with his love for me.

A magical ring if ever there was such a thing!

As I washed and dressed swiftly, my mind was already on the plans for the day. Not that I had many plans. Eomer would be tied up in the Council for most of the day, and the evening we would spend with our guests.

My heart skipped a beat. It was the first time that I had actually thought of anything as "our" concerning Eomer and me.

_Perhaps there was something different about me after all…_

I had breakfast with Arwen, Eowyn, Faramir and the hobbits. Afterwards the others went to have a look at some newly caught Meara-foals. I went down to the Stables with them and checked on Mimi, but I did not feel up to more horse talk that morning, so I turned back to the palace. The sun was shining and all of Edoras seemed bright and beautiful.

* * *

But in the middle of all this joy and happiness there was still one question that weighed heavily on my heart.

For a long time I had not been sure whom I should ask that question.

For a still longer time I had not been sure if I should ask the question.

But finally I had reached the conclusion that I owed someone to ask this question.

* * *

Later that day I found the Lady Galadriel sitting on her own in the rose garden of Edoras.

She smiled at me and beckoned to me to join her.

My heartbeat quickened.

Was it fate that I met her here today, alone, so that I could ask my question in privacy?

I sat down beside the lady. The roses were in full bloom. Here and there a crystal clear drop of rain still glittered on a glowing petal. The air was filled with the humming of bees. Some yellow butterflies fluttered to the side of the pavilion where Eowyn and I had made friends with Arwen back in July.

"That was a kind deed you did, Lothíriel, to share your tears with my granddaughter. In lives of many thousands of years dealing with emotions becomes a difficult and private endeavor. You cannot live a mortal life like that." Bright turquoise eyes turned to me. Today the lady wore her hair open and it flowed in a great golden stream across her shoulders and down her back, spilling almost to the ground behind the wooden bench where we were sitting.

Mind reading is uncanny.

But for once I was glad that she could do this.

I looked at the elvish lady, hoping she could discern the question in my eyes.

She inclined her head. "I do see your question in your eyes, Lothíriel. I have seen it there for weeks now. I would advise you not to ask it. Is it really necessary for you to know the answer to your question? Whatever the answer is, you cannot do anything about it."

I gulped. Would I? I knew what the answer was that I longed for, what I wanted to hear. Did Galadriel's warning mean that this was the one answer that I would not get?

I felt my heart in my mouth, and my palms grew cold and clammy as I pressed them against my thighs.

I knew that I would not be able to do anything about it.  
But I felt that I had to know.  
I thought that I owed the question to someone.

But would I be able to go on, if the answer was what I feared?

"I don't know, my lady. But if I don't ask you now, I will never be able to ask this question, isn't that right?" My voice was a little shaky.

Galadriel gave me a sad smile. "We will meet once more, Lothíriel. But there won't be time for such questions then, so yes, if you need to ask this particular question, you have to ask it now."

I nodded and allowed the silence to grow between us and tried to calm my thoughts by looking at the roses and the butterflies of the garden. It was so beautiful and peaceful here. And the beauty and peace of the garden should fill my heart, too. After all, for me the future looked just like that at the moment, bright, beautiful, peaceful and filled with love.

But there was this question. This question I felt I owed to someone.

Was this my future at all?  
Or had I taken someone else's future and made it my own?

I did not look at the Lady Galadriel as I asked my question.

"Did Lothíriel die because of me? Did she die so that I could come here and fall in love with Eomer?"

The Lady shook her head at me. "You did not only come here to fall in love, Lothíriel. That much I know, though the deeper thoughts of the Valar are hidden from me, especially here in Arda."

I blushed, feeling ashamed. "But did she die, because I came here? Does the name Lothíriel being linked with Eomer in the books mean that a Lothíriel was meant to marry Eomer and that if I had not come, she would have lived and loved him and married him?"

"You ask about freedom and determination, Lothíriel. From what Gandalf told me, many wise men and women of the world of your birth have pondered this question over the centuries. They could not come up with an answer. Neither could the _istari_ of Middle Earth. Of course, the little Lothíriel of Dol Amroth was already dead for many years before you met Gandalf on that hill near Erlangen." Galadriel looked at me, her eyes calm and deep as a southern sea on a sunny day.

"But the timelines between the worlds are not really in sync, aren't they? Well, time here and there does not seem to be the same, at least. Or perhaps you can travel across time and space. After all, the books were already there, although the things of the books had not happened yet here. I left my world in August and came here in September."

I objected, although I wanted to believe so much that I was not responsible for the death of the little Lothíriel.

"Did I kill her?" I asked, my voice breaking.

"Oh, no, little one," Galadriel took my hand and squeezed it comfortingly. "That you definitely did not. Her life and death were always in the hands of Eru."

"But would she have lived, had I not come? Would Eru have had her live, if I had not come? Because according to the books she must have!" Anguish constricted my throat.

Galadriel sighed. Her eyes were filled with sorrow as she looked at me.

"Maybe." She said finally. "Maybe not."

For a long moment I sat in silence, the words echoing in my ears.

_Maybe…_

_Maybe not…_

I rose to my feet and bowed to the Lady Galadriel. It was an effort to speak. I felt strangely cold and numb. Every movement was a struggle. The words I wanted to say would not come to my mind at all, at first. Finally I managed to open my mouth and after another moment, I was able to speak. But my voice was hoarse and shaky. "Thank you, my Lady. I… I have to go and think… about… things… now."

The lady smiled her beautiful sad smile at me again and nodded her acquiescence. But then she reached out and took my hands once more. I think she must have put some spell or blessing on me, because some of the numbness and pain left me, and a feeling of peace and warmth returned to the core of my soul. "Go and think, Lothíriel. But as you think, do not forget that the paths of your life also lie in Eru's hands. You did not come only to fall in love with Eomer, though he needs your love and your knowledge very much. Love and knowledge the little Lothíriel, should she have lived, perhaps could not have given him."

Then the color of Galadriel's eyes deepened to an almost amethyst color. I felt as if I was bathed a light of blues and violets.

"Be at peace, Lothíriel."

* * *

Afterwards I wandered through the streets of Edoras for long hours, lost in thought.

Was everything predestined from the beginning?  
Had my every step been decided even before I drew my first breath?

I did not think so.

It had been my choice to run away from my studies, to try and find a place where I really belonged.

I had stepped into that rainbow by my own free will.

But nevertheless… had Eru and the Valar known I would decide like that even before I was born?  
Had my choice been the reason for the little Lothíriel's death?  
Or would she have died anyway?

_Maybe. Maybe not._

Freedom. Determination. Responsibility.

Sometimes there are no easy answers.

Sometimes there are no answers at all.

I would have to learn to live with the answer the most far-sighted elf of Middle Earth had been able to give me. I would have to learn to live with the knowledge that the last answers truly lie alone with Eru Himself.

_Maybe. Maybe not._

* * *

I promised myself that I would go to the little Lothíriel's grave when I was back at Dol Amroth. I would take her flowers, and I would pray for her.  
I was not sure whether you did this in Middle Earth.  
But I did not think that the Valar or Eru would mind.

And I knew that I wanted to thank my dead sister for my happiness and wish her the same, wherever she was now, an angel of bliss in Eru's hallowed halls, or back in Middle Earth in another body and with another life to live.

I had been brave enough to ask my question.  
Now I had to be brave enough to live with the answer I had been given.  
I would be brave enough.

Whatever the real answer was, wherever the little Lothíriel's soul was, she deserved no less than my best.

I had owed her the question.  
Now I owed her my life.

* * *

**Soccer-Bitch, Maeg: **Happy birthday! (throws confetti into the air) Hugs! And I am very sorry that I have only this angsty, philosophical chapter for your birthday. Sorry! But it had to be that way.

**Kwannom: **I am honored and happy that you read my story! It's really unbelievable where we all come from that we meet here at ff . net in Tolkien's stories.

**Christina: **That in turn makes me all warm and fuzzy.

;-)


	64. To Forget and Smile

**_Remember_**

Remember me when I am gone away,  
Gone far away into that silent land;  
When you can no more hold me by the hand,  
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.  
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:  
Only remember me; you understand  
It will be late to counsel then or pray.  
Yet if you should forget me for a while  
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:  
For if the darkness and corruption leave  
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,  
**Better by far you should forget and smile  
****Than that you should remember and be sad.**

– Poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830-1894); what Arwen told Elrond when they said farewell in the hills behind Edoras.

* * *

**oooOooo**

**64. To Forget and Smile…**

When I returned to the palace in time for dinner, I was much calmer.

By that time I had realized that I had not really expected an easy answer. Perhaps I would not even have been able to believe it, had the answer been a simple 'yes' or 'no'. There are not many easy answers in real life. In fairy tales good and evil are as clearly distinguishable as white and black. In real life that is rarely the case.

I was here. I was alive. I was in love.

I would simply have to try and live with that 'maybe'. I would have to try and not ask so many questions but try for a little humbleness instead – and leave the weight of the world and the fate of our souls to those who created both.

**oooOooo**

It was a quiet dinner we shared in the Golden Hall at a long table in front of one of the huge fireplaces. It was also a relatively simple meal as such things go in palaces. Only three courses; soup, venison and berry crumble with cream. But as it was the first time that day that I saw Éomer at all, I couldn't have cared less about what we ate or how many courses were served. I sat next to Éomer and was simply happy to be there. To hear his voice. To catch his dark eyes. To enjoy his smile.

The Council had gone well. Berig and Eutharich had not been in favour of any quick reforms; there was too much to do for such extravagant considerations. Grimsir would have to wait until next year for any reform projects of his to be discussed again.

"I will have to learn Rohirric," I said. "I mean, I really know something about government and laws, but I can only study the laws and customs of Rohan if I can speak and read the language. And probably write it, too."

Éomer nodded. "I need your knowledge. We will have to find some Rohirric lore master to send with you for the winter."

Did I mention that it had been decided that I should spend the fall and winter in Dol Amroth?

It was legally necessary for me to return to Dol Amroth for the adoption to be registered and sealed properly. It did not really seem necessary to me to keep me there for months. But as Éomer concurred with the Prince of Dol Amroth and the Lady Míriël, there was little I could do. At the end of August, I would travel first to Minas Tirith, where the sons of Imrahil and Míri were waiting for us, and then we would journey to Dol Amroth together.

Many miles and many months I would be parted from Éomer. I might only see him again in May next year for Éowyn's and Faramir's wedding in Ithilien.

At least I would have ample time to learn the language and my letters. And I did realise that Éomer needed his mind free for learning how to rule Rohan. I even recognised the wisdom in removing temptation from both of us. To stay betrothed and chaste in Éomer's presence for a year and a day seemed more than improbable to me… actually, I felt it was downright impossible.

Therefore I had agreed meekly to this chastity belt of many leagues of lonely roads between Edoras and Dol Amroth.

"Yes," Míri chimed in. "And she should also continue her studies in Elvish lore. And she needs to be able to read and write Westron, too. She should also know about the history of Gondor and Rohan and…"

"And everything else," I finished Míri's sentence for her.

"You should also keep practicing your skills with a sword and riding," Éowyn added. "You will be a shield-maiden of Rohan, too. That is our law and our noblest tradition."

Éomer sighed. "A lore master and a warrior, then. Anything else? Dancing? Weaving? Where shall I find someone like that? Especially at this short notice?"

Elrond smiled slightly. "In Imladris, where else? Though I would offer not one, but two teachers to you. Elladan and Elrohir will be bored come winter with the war over. The orcs will remain in their holes for some time, now that their master has been vanquished. My sons speak Rohirric as well as any of the Eorlingas, due to their insistence to fight with your people throughout these centuries of strife against the darkness." He favoured his sons with a piercing look. Apparently Elrond's children shared a certain tendency to go against their father's wishes. Then Elrond turned to Imrahil. "And you know my sons have a task to fulfil at Dol Amroth." Imrahil nodded. The twins looked pained. The task, whatever it was, seemed to be not to their liking. But they did not object.

"Thank you, my lord," I said demurely. "I promise I will repay this honour with diligence and hard work." Elladan and Elrohir gave me evil grins that suggested they would see to it that I did just that.

"I could not ask for more," Elrond replied gravely.

After dinner we retired to the easy chairs of the library, gathering in small groups to while away the evening with talk and song.

Arwen stayed at her father's side. They did not seem to talk much; they simply sat close to each other, allowing the talk of the others to flow around them. The twins watched them for a time, then they shared a sigh and left for some late night stroll.

Faramir and Éowyn had eyes only for each other. The same could not be said for Éomer and me, as we had to share the glances we would have had for one another with Míri and my new Ada, Imrahil, who kept us company.

The Hobbits, Gimli and Legolas were engaged in a lively game of cards. I think Gimli was beating them out of all their worldly possessions until Gandalf joined the game. Then tables were turned on the dwarf, although that did not help the Hobbits much. Wizards are sneaky. And they cheat at cards.

**oooOooo**

With the thirteenth of August, the last day of the Fellowship dawned.

We spent that last day together. Gandalf, Aragorn, Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin, Legolas, Gimli and I.

We went out riding and had a picnic on the southern banks of the Snowbourn River. We spread blankets out on the grass. We had plates and glasses and cutlery, heaps of food, enough to satisfy even the hungriest Hobbit, and bottles of wonderful red wine from Dorwinion. We laughed, we talked, we shared another couple of songs, many memories both sorrowful and happy, and some very naughty jokes. The sun was hot and golden, the sky blue as can be. Our horses grazed peacefully a few feet away from us. It was a happy day. Peaceful and bright.

I felt immensely grateful when I realized that most days since the war was over fit that description. Bright. Happy. Peaceful. It was so good to know that all our efforts and sacrifices had been worth it, that we had succeeded. The ring was gone and the war was over.

But we did not talk about goodbyes or meeting again. When—and if—all of us would meet again, only the Valar knew. And they did not come to Middle-earth anymore to impart knowledge of such little importance to any of their children.

But as we had chosen the southern banks of the Snowbourn River as the place for our picnic, we saw how Elrond and Arwen rode to the hills of the Eastfold to make their own farewell. Whereas at least some of the members of the Fellowship would probably meet again in peace and happiness, for the Elf-lord and his now mortal daughter, there would be no such reunion.

Arwen and Elrond went up into the hills and stayed there until night fell warm and soft on the mountains, hills and plains of Rohan. It was a bitter parting between the mortal woman and her immortal Elvish father, there in the hills behind Edoras. As bitter as a parting between a father and a daughter can be, when fates that should have endured throughout the long millennia of Eä together would now be parted instead, never to reunite again. Or so they thought, because it is said that the elves will live in Arda until the end of time, but the gift of men will take us mortals beyond the circles of this world. Therefore Arwen and Elrond believed their farewell would last for all eternity and literally beyond the end of this world.

**oooOooo**

Arwen came to my room that night. There was a soft knock on the door, and then she hurried into my chamber much the same way as a child runs to the bed of her parents when she is scared by some nightmare. She was horribly pale. Her eyes were brimming with tears. "I could not go to Aragorn with this. He loses as much a father as I do. And you, you know how it feels, don't you?"

I realised that she was referring to my parents back on Earth, who were in a way as lost to me as Elrond was to her. I made her sit down on the bed with me. She turned to me and her eyes were huge and dark in her pale face. "Lothy, how can you endure this? How do you go on?"

I shrugged. What could I say to this? "I hope that they don't grieve too much for me. I hope that they are healthy. I hope that they go on with their lives. I hope that they are happy. I hope that they remember the good times we had together. I would like to think that they smile whenever they think of me."

Arwen put her face in her hands. "That is what I asked of Ada. I wanted him to promise that he would not remember me with tears, but only with a smile."

"And did he?" I asked apprehensively. You can't make such promises and hold them. You should not ask for impossible promises.

Arwen shook her head. Now tears were rolling down her cheeks like pearls made of crystal. Silent, silver tear drops sliding elegantly down her high cheekbones.

I put my arm around her. "I don't think he could promise that," I said softly. "And he has the same right to grieve and be sad as you do. But he won't be crying forever. Your mother is waiting for him in Aman, isn't she? She will help him. And your brothers will join them there in two hundred years or so, when they have finally enough of this world of dwarves and men." Then a thought occurred to me. "You know, your brothers might even be able to carry a letter from you to your father, when they finally leave, and pictures of all the pretty children you are going to have. I am sure that would make your father smile."

"Do you really think so?" Arwen looked at me with a faint glimmer of hope in her eyes.

"Well, I am not sure," I said honestly. "I don't know much about Elves, and how things will be in two hundred years. But why shouldn't your brothers take some letters and pictures with them to Aman? Or even some other Elves who take ship during the years of your life? I know that your father and some others will leave next year, but there will be many who remain for some time longer, won't there? You could send letters every year. How about that? And perhaps the Valar will send you dreams from your Ada. They can do that, right?"

A wavering, very sweet smile finally appeared on Arwen's face. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes," she repeated with a much firmer voice. "That would be possible."

Her smile grew, as she imagined the letters and paintings she could send to Aman.

"I won't tell him," she decided. "It will be my surprise for his begetting day, year after next." She dashed her tears away. Then she gave me a very impish grin. "I will probably need some painting lessons. I always hated those stinking oil colours and ran away from my tutor."

I grinned back at her. "I'm sure Aragorn will get you another tutor. He's gonna love that."

She giggled at that suggestion. "Maybe if I paint him, too?"

"That would depend on your ability with brushes and pencils, I guess," I replied with a smile.

Then Arwen grew serious again. "Thank you, Lothy. I really needed someone to talk about… all that… I never felt this urge before. It is strange. I thought I should break if I could not tell someone about the way I felt. Somehow, my feelings are so strangely intense lately."

I pursed my lips, considering this information. "Maybe it's because you are mortal now? I guess we feel differently from Elves. Or you could be pregnant. I'm told you get the wildest mood swings when you are pregnant."

Arwen stared at me. Her hand went involuntarily down to her stomach. "Do you think it really could be possible that I… that we… that…" Her eyes grew very round.

"How should I know?" I asked. "I have no idea how this becoming mortal of yours might have changed your metabolism, the biochemistry and stuff about your body. From a strictly human point of view I'd say, sure you can be pregnant, if you haven't had your period lately. But as Elves don't have a period, how can I know? Ask Lady Galadriel! Ask your… okay, perhaps don't ask your father…"

Arwen nodded. "Yes, perhaps I should do that… but I don't think… no, I just can't be sure… even if I am, it's too soon to be sure." She sighed. "This is all so confusing for me. So many new experiences and thoughts and feelings. In such a short time. And here I thought I had seen and thought and felt almost everything that there is to be thought and seen and felt…"

We fell silent and simply sat side by side on my bed for a moment. Then Arwen suddenly turned to me with a worried expression on her face. "Here I go on and on about my feelings and never think about yours. You suggest such a wonderful solution to cheer me up when you must be missing your own parents so much. And you can't send them any letters. I'm so sorry, Lothíriel. I just did not think."

If she had not mentioned this, I could have probably ignored that fact. I had been doing just fine not thinking about the possibility of sending a letter to my mother and step-father, a letter to say _'I'm fine, don't worry, I will marry the king of Rohan'…_

_Yeah, right…_

I raised my eyebrows as high as they would go to keep my eyes from tearing up. There had been enough tears spilled in this room tonight. Finally I managed to heave a sigh without tears on my part. "Don't worry, Arwen. That's quite alright. I'm not as close to my parents as you are to your Ada. And I have had almost a year now to get used to the thought that my parents will never know what has happened to me."

_As if you could ever get used to something like that…_

"I'm sorry nevertheless," Arwen said softly. "And thank you for being here for me."

"Hey, we are friends. That's how friendship works," I replied, blushing.

Arwen slid down off the bed, embraced me and hurried from my room. Probably to search for Lady Galadriel, asking about Elvish or mortal pregnancies.

**oooOooo**

I have to admit that Arwen's tears and her grief had upset me. I hate farewells, especially if they are the forever kind. That does not suit my penchant for happy endings. But there was really nothing I could do about that, except what I had done: hold my friend while she cried and come up with crazy ideas about establishing a postal service between Arda and Aman.

To calm down, I spent almost two hours writing down the events of the day and Arwen's visit into the small leather bound book Míri had given me back at Dol Amroth. When I finally put the lid back on the ink pot and laid the quill aside, it was way after midnight.

As I leafed through the book, I realized that I had almost no pages left. The tale of the ranger out of Erlangen had filled many hundred pages. Well, there had been a number of amazing things that had happened to me during the last year. I had come a long, long way since I had left Erlangen that day in August 2004.

It was probably just as well that there would not be a letter for me to send. That would be one hell of a letter to write. One letter would never be enough for that story!

And anyway, not even my eccentric mother would believe that story.

No, it was surely much better that there would be no letter from Edoras to Erlangen.

Much better. For everyone concerned. And especially for my poor head… learning everything I had to know about Gondor and Rohan would cause me enough headaches during the months to come. No, I would be better off without a letter. And my parents, too. After all, a year had passed. They would have moved on by now. A letter would only cause new grief and give little or no comfort. No, it was really better that for me there would be no letter to write.

But I did not get the thought of a letter out of my head for long hours of tossing and turning restlessly in my bed that night. When I finally fell asleep, the notion of writing this letter followed me into my dreams.

_"Dear Mama, dear Papa,"_ my letter would begin, _"Liebe Mama, lieber Papa,"_ as all letters to your parents begin.

But how would I continue?


	65. Sneaky Elves

**65. Sneaky Elves**

Did I say wizards are sneaky? Well, they are nothing compared to Elvish ladies who used to be immortal.

Arwen did not hurry from my room to find out if she was pregnant, or to curl up in bed with Aragorn getting pregnant. No, she ran to find Gandalf and ask him to play postman for me.

**oooOooo**

It was before breakfast, right after dawn. I am not at my best without some coffee or at the very least some _tírithel_ inside of me that early in the morning. Especially if I have barely slept during the night.

I stared at Gandalf. "What did you just say?" I asked incredulously.

The wizard smiled at me. "If you have a letter that I should take with me on the journey, I promise that it will reach its destination."

"You promise…" I trailed off, gaping at the old man.

The wizard's eyes sparkled with mirth. "I will see to it that the letter goes where you want it to go. Of course I cannot promise when it will arrive, but it will arrive one day. That much I can assure you of."

I blinked at him, still absolutely nonplussed by this unexpected offer.

Gandalf's smile turned into a broad grin. "We want to leave right after lunch, so I suggest you make for the library at once."

I nodded, feeling more than just a little dazed. When I turned, the wizard caught my arm. "Oh, and, Lothíriel, it was a good idea you had yesterday evening—sending letters to Aman. Quite unprecedented, of course. But it will make them happy, both of them. This only goes to show that there are many reasons why you are here."

He winked at me and entered the Golden Hall for some leisurely, hobbity breakfast. After all, they were not in a hurry on their journey back without the nuisance of black riders on their trail or similar annoyances.

For a moment I remained standing where I was, staring after the wizard. Then realization struck. I felt my knees go weak for a moment.

I could write that letter.  
I would write that letter.

_I had to write that goddamn letter!_

I gasped and ran for the library.

Where I spent hours writing the most difficult letter I have ever written in my life.

This is what I finally gave to Gandalf, together with a small book bound in leather.

**oooOooo**

"Edoras, Rohan, August 14th, 3019

Liebe Mama, dear Mother, lieber Papa, dear Father,

This is how it came about that I had to sit down and write this letter. The most difficult letter I have ever written in my life!

I write to both of you, although I know, Mama, that you will get that letter first—you always do—and I will leave it up to you to decide _if _you show this letter to Papa at all, or only tell him that I am alive and well. I think he won't take well to being told that I have ended up in an entirely different world and that I will be marrying a king. But if you think you can convince him of the truth without him trying to get the postman convicted for murder, go ahead.

The little book that comes with this letter contains an account of everything that has happened to me up until now. So I don't need to explain everything that happened in this letter; you will simply have to read it for yourself. I know my handwriting is terrible, but you should try writing with a quill and this ghastly home-made ink some time.

If you want to, you can post my story on the internet with my other scribblings. It is quite safe. No one will believe this anyway. And after all, Tolkien did the same thing. He wrote down a good deal of our bloody history and published it. Yes, it is now _my_ history, too.

But don't try to turn my story into a real book. I know how this would make you happy, Mama, but with those pesky publishing laws it's really impossible. Don't try to win this case, it's not worth it. Papa will tell you the same thing.

This is simply my way of saying goodbye to you. And I would really like to say goodbye to my fan fiction friends, too. They will think this is the most hyper way of getting out of fan fiction for some real life reasons, like a husband and a job.

And in a way that's even true. I _will_ be married next year, and you can imagine any number of grandchildren with blond or brown hair and beautiful dark eyes. I guess I will also have a job, helping Éomer with the governing of Rohan. I think it would be nice to collect all those customs and laws that are handed down from one generation to the next and to codify them. You see, contrary to what you always thought, my days as a law student have not been a complete waste of time.

What else is there to say?

The seed you planted when you named me Lothíriel has flowered in the most unexpected but happy way. Yes, happy. Even though the way to get here was long and difficult, I don't regret one single step. I am where I belong. I am in love. I have found the best friends imaginable. I am happy and busy. My life is full as it never was on Earth. There was no real reason for me to live on Earth. Here I have many reasons to live the life I have chosen, and although some of the reasons are difficult, I would not have it any other way.

Take care, and take care of Papa. I know that you will cry when you have read this letter, and probably again when you read my journal. I guess that I will cry when I hand this package to Gandalf. But for the future, if you think about me, now and then, I want you to do so with a smile upon your lips. Both of you. I have always loved you, Mama, and always will.

Tell Papa that I will always love him. Papa, if she has managed to get you to read this for yourself, I love you. Forever. Don't miss me too much.

God, the Valar, and Eru all bless you.

With all my love,

Yours,

Lothíriel

P.S.: I had to tell Éomer about this letter. He wanted to know what I was doing in the library that was so important that I couldn't eat breakfast. He asks me to send his warmest regards. Certain rash words on his part that you stumble upon in the journal were due to the heat of the argument and bad experiences with an evil character who betrayed his king and his country and killed his cousin. He never meant them the way he said them. I have forgiven him and you should, too. He is a really wonderful man, and I love him more than anything else in the world. He regrets it deeply that he could not ask your permission to marry me. He loves me very much, and he will take care of me as long as I live.

Lots of love, from

(signature) Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth, future Queen of Rohan and

(unintelligible signature) Éomer, son of Eomund, King of Rohan

P.P.S.: There might be a chance for you to send a letter back to me. Gandalf now and again pays custom to the factory outlet of Vauen, the pipe manufacturer in Nuremberg. He likes the pipes they make. He actually owns the "Gandalf pipe" from the movies! Anyway, if you give the letter to the man in the shop and tell him to pass it on to an old man with white hair and a white beard, a blue pointed hat, a silver scarf and probably white robes, it just might be possible that I get the letter. It's worth a try.

Goodbye and yours forever, Lothy."

**oooOooo**

I sealed the letter with red wax and stamped it with the royal seal of Rohan, which has the head of a horse and some very impressive runes on it. Then I put the letter and the book in a small wooden box. Gimli nailed the lid on the box. I wrapped the box in parchment, secured with tightly knotted string and sealed that again. I carefully wrote down the address.

"An  
Herrn und Frau Elbenstern  
Am Laufer Schlagturm 15  
90543 Nürnberg"

When I was finished, my heart was beating like a drum and my hands were shaking.

I almost ran as I carried the box to Gandalf in the Golden Hall.

He raised his bushy eyebrows and gave me an amused look. "Well, that was quick. And quite a nice letter. Especially the last part is positively ingenious. I only hope that the boy at the shop will remember me when I stop by at Vauen's some time in the future."

"Then you _will_ go there again?" I asked, clenching my fists and speaking a little prayer under my breath.

Gandalf chuckled. "As the noble arts of Aman do not yet include either the production of tobacco or pipes, I rather think I will return to that shop. I have grown rather fond of that pipe I bought just before I met you."

He gave me another of his famous conspiratorial winks.

In a more serious vein he continued, "But only once. Crossing the void is not without danger; as you should know from your own experience. And there has been more than enough contact between this world and Arda as it is. We don't want to leave traces in the void pointing the way to either of the two worlds. That would go ill indeed. So it is one letter to take there, and perhaps, some day, another to take back. Are you willing to accept these conditions?"

"Of course I am," I exclaimed. "I never thought that it might be possible to get even one letter there, not really, not even after I suggested that Arwen could send some letters to Aman. You have no idea how much I wanted to say goodbye to my parents properly. They must have been thinking that I was murdered."

Gandalf inclined his head. He did not say anything to oppose my assumption. So it was true. My parents had indeed believed that I had been killed. I bit down on my lip, overwhelmed by guilt.

"Don't feel guilty," the wizard said, his usually gruff voice very soft. "There was no other way for you to leave. And now you can bid them goodbye properly, even if only by the means of a letter."

I swallowed down my tears and managed a feeble smile. "Thank you," I said. "I am really glad that I got the chance to say goodbye at all."

**oooOooo**

At last it was time to say goodbye—or farewell.

We accompanied our friends to the gates of Edoras. The weather had stayed hot and bright. Travelling would be a lark in these peaceful summer days.

Suddenly I remembered something. It would be a lark and peaceful until the Hobbits returned to the Shire. _On the other hand…_ the scouring of the Shire would be child's play compared to the war of the rings. I decided to keep silent about this last one of my memories.

I sighed deeply as I realized that this day of many partings also meant that I was parting with the last of my fading memories of books I had read long ago, in another life, in another world. From now onwards, there was nothing I _could_ know. There was nothing I should know. I was free. There was only my life ahead of me, and I would have to fill every page of my new journal by myself.

Arwen embraced her brothers fiercely. But they would be back in Minas Tirith for Éowyn's wedding, so they would see each other again in a few months' time. She also got to embrace Galadriel and Celeborn. Haldir bowed to her deeply.

Although she wept when she hugged and kissed her father, I could see that she was not in despair as she had been last night. Maybe even planning her letters and her pictures. I hoped the Valar would not get mad at me for establishing this unprecedented postal service between Arda and Aman.

She kissed the Hobbits, which made Merry and Pippin giggle like girls and Sam blush hotly. To Frodo she said, "Remember my gift." He nodded slowly, his blue eyes veiled.

She embraced and kissed Gandalf, too, who blushed even more ferociously than the Hobbits.

Aragorn embraced Elrond and the twins. And Gandalf. I think that's another thing that I really prefer about Middle-earth as opposed to Earth. When you are really, truly friends here, you show it. No matter if you are a man and a king to boot. You embrace friends who you will never see again. And I mean, really embrace, not just this back thumping thing guys do back on Earth, nor like lovers. But the way friends are meant to embrace.

But he bowed to the Hobbits, who blushed horribly at this high honour.

And so it went on, with everyone making more or less a fool of himself or herself.

I bowed to Elrond. That went fine. I got hugged by the twins.

I attempted a curtsy for Galadriel, fell over my feet and into her arms. She laughed out loud and gave me a kiss. Gimli later accused me of doing that on purpose. I told him that he was only mad that he had not thought of doing something like that himself. He blushed and grumbled some horrible dwarfish curses under his breath. Oh, well, perhaps he would get his chance at a kiss from Galadriel when he sailed to Aman with Legolas one day.

I embraced and kissed the Hobbits. "Have a safe journey," I told them. "Come and visit us sometime!"

But to Frodo I whispered, "I hope you find your peace." He nodded. I think he knew even then that he would not be able to stay.

Gandalf embraced me tightly, tickling my face with his long white beard. "I will deliver your letter. Be happy, my dear."

"I will," I whispered into his beard and was not able to keep back my tears another minute.

I hate farewells. Especially the forever kind.

Finally everyone had made his goodbyes but Éomer and Merry.

Merry had acted as Éomer's squire ever since Cormallen. Although it is wrong, of course, because Merry is an adult, I think that Éomer saw in him something of the sons he might one day have. He did not want Merry to leave, even though he knew that Merry could not possibly stay in a country where almost everyone thought him no more than a lad of thirteen.

Together with Éowyn he finally walked over to Merry and they said, "Farewell now, Meriadoc of the Shire and Holdwine of the Mark! Ride to good fortune, and ride back soon to our welcome!"

Then Éomer knelt down before the Hobbit, suddenly, awkwardly smaller than his small squire. "Kings of old would have laden you with gifts that a wain could not bear for your deeds upon the fields of Mundburg; and yet you will take naught, you say, but the arms that were given to you. This I suffer, for indeed I have no gift that is worthy to give you, hero, brother in arms and most honoured of all squires of Rohan. But my sister begs you to receive this small thing, as a memorial of Dernhelm and of the horns of the Mark at the coming of the morning."

And Éowyn knelt down next to Éomer and gave Merry an ancient horn, a small, silver horn, beautifully carved with the pictures of horsemen riding up from the tip of the horn to the mouthpiece, and fitted with a green baldric. The mouthpiece and the tip of the horn were lined with runes of ancient spells and blessings, honouring the bravery of long forgotten heroes.

"This is an heirloom of our house," Éowyn said, and there were tears in her eyes. "It was made by the Dwarves and came from the hoard of Scatha the Worm. Eorl the Young brought it from the North. He that blows it at need shall set fear in the hearts of his enemies and joy in the hearts of his friends, and they shall hear him and come to him." The shadow of a memory of another horn that had been blown in vain passed away quickly in the sunshine.

Merry accepted the horn. There was no way to refuse this noble gift, pressed on him by the kneeling king of Rohan and the princess of Ithilien. They embraced, and Merry kissed Éowyn's hand for goodbye.

He would come back and visit as soon as his affairs in the Shire would be in order. He would certainly be in time for the wedding come May. I was looking forward to it.

Éomer and Éowyn rose back to their feet. Servants moved forward with golden goblets of mead as stirrup-cups on silver trays. The cups were lifted in a last toast of goodbye and godspeed.

At last there was nothing more to be said, every word of blessing and farewell had been spoken. The company mounted their horses and ponies and rode away to the bridge across Snowbourn River.

Éomer and I remained at the gates of Edoras long after the others had turned back to the palace. Éomer held me close to him, without a word. I knew he was sad to see them go, and he knew that I was sad, too. We knew each other's heart without a word.

And somehow the many partings of the day did not pain me as much as I had feared they would. That's life. People come and people go.

But some stay.

And sometimes they stay forever.


	66. The Responsibilities of a Queen

**66. The Responsibilities of a Queen**

**15th of August 3019**

This morning I went down to the marketplace and bought a new journal. It is a beautiful book, the pages of parchment are so thin and smooth that they almost look like some special, expensive paper. The leather is soft and cream coloured. I bet I will get it muddy in no time at all. On the cover is a picture of a galloping horse, very fitting for the journal of the future queen of Rohan.

I went down to the market on my own, for which I was severely scolded by Míri upon my return. She said it's not appropriate behaviour for a noble lady, especially not for the king's fiancée. She also said that it could be dangerous.

I did not argue. She's right. I just didn't think. It will take some time to get used to the pomp and circumstance that comes with being engaged to a king.

On my way to the marketplace and back, everyone I met greeted me, with bows and curtsies no less. They obviously all knew that I was Éomer's betrothed. It very nearly freaked me out. Then the shopkeeper would not accept payment for the journal. It was awkward. I had no idea how to react. It is so weird. People I have never met know my name…

When Míri was finished scolding me, she took me to talk with Éowyn. We will leave for Dol Amroth on the first of September. Until then I am to learn as much as I can about the management of the royal household. I discovered that Éowyn was not only a fierce shield-maiden and a healer of some renown, but also a cunning manager of a household of the size and complexity of a large company.

Today I was only introduced to Mistress Gosvintha, the housekeeper and second-in-command of Éowyn in all matters concerning the royal household.

Mistress Gosvintha was a woman of about forty-five, and a woman of substance in every way—powerfully built, with very sharp blue eyes and a mob of light brown very curly hair. Really impressive.

The ledgers I was shown were even more impressive. Think thick, huge, leather-bound folios filled with spidery handwriting in those horrible runes.

I didn't speak, understand, read or write Rohirric. And I had no idea of managing anything more complex than a student's allowance.

When I thought about everything I had to learn during that damn year of my engagement to Éomer, I feel positively sick with apprehension. Up until now I had never given a thought about what being a Queen might mean in terms of responsibility and plain work. Tolkien never wrote a word about how hard Éowyn worked, taking care of her uncle and the day-to-day-management of Meduseld.

Now I also understood the reasoning behind Míri's plan of keeping me at Dol Amroth during the fall and winter. That way I would be able to learn at least a part of the things I would need as the Queen of Rohan unobserved by my future subjects and the formidable housekeeper of Meduseld. Although I still could imagine how I would be able to survive being parted from Éomer for such a long time, I did realise that I would learn better in the safety of Dol Amroth and the comparatively small household of Prince Imrahil.

Thinking about the responsibilities of a queen also reminded me of my Implanon. As my first duty would be to get pregnant, I would have to have it removed. If I remembered correctly what my gynaecologist told me, it might take up to six months after the removal of the implant for my periods to return. With the wedding date set at the beginning of September next year, I should probably have the Implanon taken out at once. I guessed that Lady Elaine of Tarnost would be able to do that. But I was not looking forward to it. I was also not looking forward to having monthlies again. The hygienic arrangements of Middle-earth for these things don't measure up to twenty-first century Earth. And there's a reason why I was so happy about my Implanon even back on Earth. I'm one of those women who always get pretty sick once a month. My mother once told me that she never had any problems that way anymore after she gave birth to me. I would just have to hope that I'd get pregnant at once and that what my mother said would be true in my case, too.

The events surrounding this morning's shopping, the introduction to Mistress Gosvintha and my thoughts of the many levels of a queen's duties had me sitting in Éomer's study—and feeling gloomy.

Would I be up to everything that would be asked of me?

I did not even begin to understand what being a queen is all about. But I did know that it was a responsibility of a greater magnitude than any job I could have taken on back on Earth. This job would claim my life.

And I didn't owe it to myself to be good at it. I owed it to more than a million of Rohirrim—men, women and children, who all of them had no say in the matter of who would be their queen.

That was a frightening thought.

I dipped my quill into the small pot of black ink, shook of the excess of ink and stared thoughtfully at three pages of rambling. The way I had written today was not the way I wanted to write this journal.

I did plan to carry on writing this journal as I had done the one I sent to my parents, the one Míri gave me in March. I wanted to write it more as if I was writing a novel than a journal. It had been fun and almost therapeutic to write about my journey from Erlangen to Edoras that way. It helped me during those dark days of waiting in March. It helped me sorting out my feelings during the last months. I was even thinking about writing down the tale of "The Ranger out of Erlangen" a second time, now that the first version was on its way to Nuremberg. My children would want to know how I came to be here, one day.

I sighed. More rambling. This was not at all the way I wanted to begin this journal. But today I somehow didn't feel up to the distance required for writing as if this was a novel and not a very moody, thoughtful day in my life. It was not only my fretting about my future responsibilities that made me so gloomy today.

There was another thing.

They had been gone only a day and already I missed them.

I missed them so much!

Today had sunny and bright, one of those last golden, perfect summer days, when fall is already waiting around the corner. One of those days, when the earth itself seems to hold its breath, for even the slightest breeze might push summer over the verge of autumn. It was a day for languishing in the sunshine, for riding or swimming or walking, but I didn't feel up to that, either. I felt downhearted, morose, gloomy, depressed.

I was only now realizing how much the other members of the Fellowship had become an essential part of my life during the last year. I never knew that friendship could run so deep.

_Damn._

I knew that I had to let go. _Life goes on._ I had to move on, they had to move on. I knew I would see Merry and Pippin again next year, for Éowyn's wedding, and I was fairly sure that Merry would stick around for my wedding. Galadriel would come for my wedding, too, because of Rohan and Lórien being neighbouring realms. Such an honour! The twins would come to Dol Amroth in winter. I was already looking forward to seeing them again. Apart from Legolas they were the most "human" Elves that I had met. Probably because of their long association with the Dúnedain. Arwen was much more Elvish than her brothers when I first met her.

There, I _would_ meet many of my friends again. That should cheer me up.

But I would never meet Frodo again, or Gandalf. They would leave Middle-earth forever in two years, along with Lord Elrond and Glorfindel and many other Elves. Although they were no close friends, I did share Arwen's grief, because she was my friend. And I would really have liked to meet Glorfindel again—I would have liked to thank him for his help and his beautiful gift in person, and not only in that letter that Gandalf had agreed to pass on to the Elf-lord.

I knew I should not be so depressed about this. After all, they were not going to die. They would sail to Aman, the Blessed Realm. They would go to the paradise of the Valar somewhere beyond the tides of time and the circles of this world, second star to the right and then straight on till morning… They would live happily forever after, or as long as they wanted to. So I really should not be so sad.

Perhaps a part of my gloominess was due to the fact that yesterday's farewells put such a very final line under the events of the year that changed my life completely and forever.

**oooOooo**

"Lothíriel? What are you doing here, all alone?" Éomer's voice suddenly asked from behind me. He sat down next to me and cocked his head slightly, looking at me inquiringly with those deep, dark eyes of his. "You look so sombre. What is the matter?"

I sighed deeply and closed my journal. "I feel sombre. Gloomy. Depressed." I sighed again. I looked into Éomer's eyes and felt silly tears burning in my eyes. "I miss them. Éomer, they have been gone only a day, one single day, and already I miss them. It's like a gnawing pain somewhere inside of me."

I touched my hand below my collarbone. For a moment I thought he would laugh at me. But he only touched the back of my hand lightly with his finger tips. "I miss them, too. It will be hard to live without that cantankerous wizard stealing our best horses and getting me in trouble with my peers."

I scowled at Éomer. He closed his eyes for a moment, and I realized that Éomer was tired and that there was a lingering sadness in his eyes. "No, really, Lothíriel," he said in a gentle voice. "I _will_ miss Mithrandir. Not only his wisdom, though it will hard to get by without it. But his bad moods and his irksomeness. I'm going to miss Shadowfax, too. He could have sired so many beautiful foals. Now it will be up to your Mimi to keep this most noble line alive."

"I will miss Lord Elrond, too," I said softly. "Has Arwen eaten anything at all?"

He shook his head. "I don't think so. She has not left her room at all today. The tray Gosvintha sent her is untouched. She needs time. We all need time to get used to this new age of men."

"The age of men," I repeated. My voice sounded cheerless. I traced the outline of the horse on my journal. "I know I should be happy about the peace, and what we will be able to do with this _'age of men'. _I know there are so many opportunities for us shaping this world for the better of all its peoples. And yet… the Elves, you know, when Aragorn dies, the last of the Elves will depart from Middle-earth. I don't quite know how to explain it… but it seems to me that there is some magic, some special blessing that clings to them that lives only in their presence. They will go, and nothing of this will remain in Middle-earth. I think this will be a loss for all of Middle-earth. And I don't know if this loss can ever be healed."

Éomer thought about this for a moment. His voice was low and gentle when he finally answered, "I know what you mean. I feel very much the same. But there is nothing to do about it. They are the children of the Valar, and we are only the aftercomers. They belong to Aman, and we belong to Arda. We are blessed that we might know them; we are blessed that our children may know them still. One day the Elves will be forgotten in Middle-earth. Our great-grandchildren may even think of them only as figures of tales and stories."

It comforted me to know that Éomer did not only understand me, but also shared my feelings. I realised suddenly how few times we had had to talk, to really talk to each other about anything, something, just to have a conversation... And I enjoyed talking to Éomer. He looked directly at me when he was talking, making a firm eye-contact. And he really listened to me, not like some men who only listen to the thoughts in their own minds; who see conversation only as an opportunity to show how right they are. Suddenly my heart lifted and I was able to smile at Éomer. Éomer, however, remained serious.

He hesitated for a moment. Then he asked, "You know how and when Aragorn will die?"

I jumped at his question. I had not realised what I had said. I bit my lip. I did not want to tempt the fates with talking about dates. In a way I was relieved that I had no clear recollection about the date in Éomer's case anyway. I remembered only that he had grown to be very old. But I did remember the year of Aragorn's death. I swallowed hard. And here had I thought that I had finally passed beyond the reach of those damn books. "Well, I have read about it. And I think it will happen like that. Most of what I read about turned out to be true. But… I'd rather not talk about it. I don't want to tempt the Fates to change the date."

Éomer inclined his head in acceptance of my decision. I think it was easy to read from the way I had answered that the way Aragorn's demise had been described in the books did not disturb me.

"Good," Éomer said. "That's good to know." Then he carefully lifted my hand to his lips and kissed the back of my hand. "I would that you smile and not sit in here alone thinking dark thoughts."

I gave him a lopsided smile. "I can't help myself. I miss our friends, and writing the letter to my parents has stirred all kinds of melancholy thoughts in my heart. We have a nice word for this feeling in German. We call it _'Weltschmerz'_—the pain you feel at carrying the weight of the world in your heart, this melancholy agonizing that comes over you mostly during grey days of fall and winter, or when you listen to sad tunes."

Éomer sighed a little. "I know this feeling you describe. Still I do not like to see you looking so sad."

"It will pass," I assured him. "Do you know how much I will miss you during the long months of fall and winter?"

Éomer's hand tightened around my fingers. "I will miss you more," he murmured. Then his eyes brightened with a thought. "Tell me, in your native tongue, how do you say _'I love you'?"_

This request made me smile. "I love you is _'Ich liebe dich'_ in German."

_"Ic liebe dic,"_ Éomer said.

I grinned. "Not quite. It's more like the Elvish _'ch'."_ I hissed at him to show him how it should sound. _"Chhh!"_

He chuckled, "You sound like an angry cat." Then he winked at me and tried again. _"Ichhh liebe dichhh!"_

I could do nothing but smile at him happily. For the first time that day I felt all warm, safe and fuzzy inside. "And now you have to tell me what I love you is in Rohirric."

_"Ic lufie thee."_ He answered.

"Really?" I asked him. Then I tried and felt as silly as he must have felt just a moment ago. _"Ic lufie thee," _I said haltingly.

"I do love you," I repeated. "Even if I don't speak Rohirric yet."

Éomer smiled at me reassuringly. "You will learn. Elrohir and Elladan speak a clearer Rohirric accent than I do, from centuries of riding and fighting with my people."

I inhaled deeply, trying to appear relaxed and confident. I think Éomer felt just how nervous I was. He embraced me, hugging me against his strong, broad chest. "Don't worry. You will learn. You are smart. You will have the best teachers in Middle-earth. And everyone here knows that you come from far away. They will be patient with you and not at all insulted when you use Westron."

I sighed, slowly relaxing against Éomer. I would learn. I had managed to learn German civil law and Latin. I would manage to learn Rohirric.

A bell sounded from somewhere outside. I felt Éomer shift behind me. "You have to go, haven't you?" I asked softly.

_"Hmmm…"_ Éomer murmured. He bent over me, burrowing his face in my hair, touching his lips to my neck. Desire flared up inside of my so intensely that it felt almost like pain.

Reluctantly Éomer drew back. "Béma, how I am going to miss you!"

Then he rose to his feet and quickly moved away from me, a wry smile on his face. "You are right, I have to go. Yet another council. Don't stay in here all alone and being sad, Lothíriel. Go riding or walking in the gardens. Summer's almost over. We have to enjoy the sunshine while it lasts. Tonight I have arranged for dinner in the yellow dining room. Aragorn, Arwen, Faramir, Éowyn, Legolas, Gimli, Imrahil, Míriël and us. Nothing fancy. A simple dinner for friends."

A simple dinner? If Mistress Gosvintha would have anything to do with this dinner, we would not get away with anything less than three courses. Well, I guess you could call a three course dinner simple as compared to a feast of seven courses.

"Gimli and Legolas will set out for the Glittering Caves tomorrow," I mentioned, feeling another pang of sadness at yet another goodbye.

Éomer nodded. "I know. But they should return here before you depart for Dol Amroth, so it's not even a real goodbye, Lothíriel. And you know that they will stay around. Gimli has already sent for his kin to work in the Glittering Caves, just as Legolas has sent for his to come to Ithilien."

"You seem to know my every thought," I said, smiling at him.

"I do my very best," Éomer replied, blowing me a kiss. Then he left the room for his duties as king of Rohan.

I remained sitting at the table for a while longer, daydreaming. My thoughts were no longer gloomy and filled with melancholy, but happy and contented. I loved talking with Éomer. He was perceptive and patient, he had a slow, kind humour, and he had not problems with talking about his feelings, at least when he was talking to me – or his sister. I sighed. With Éomer at my side, my worries suddenly seemed insubstantial, and my sorrow at the farewells of the day before faded away like mists above the Anduin in the summer sun.

Everything would be alright.

_How much more difficult than Latin could Rohirric possibly be?_


	67. Busy Days

**67. Busy Days**

A few days later, Legolas and Gimli returned from their trip to the Glittering Caves.

Éomer had a table set up out on the terrace in front of the Hall of Meduseld, so we could eat our lunch in the warm sunshine of the last days of August.

"So, how was it?" I asked Legolas. The elf sipped at a glass of white wine, his eyes veiled.

"It was… strange… disturbing… but wonderful…" He trailed off. Then he shook himself. "I don't have the words to describe the miracles of these caves. Only Gimli will do justice to the description of the beauty of this netherworld."

Gimli grinned fondly at his friend. "Hear, hear! Never before has a Dwarf claimed victory over an Elf in a contest of words. This should be set down in the annals of Rohan."

Éomer laughed at that. "I will order it done immediately. Frohwein, what do you think?"

Frohwein had taken up the duties of Éomer's squire since Merry had left. He was actually too old for that duty—which was usually carried out by the teenaged son of a close relative of the king—, but Éomer trusted him implicitly, and so Frohwein had taken on this duty of friend, adviser and aid in all things of the daily life. Now Frohwein, a tall, thin man in his twenties with lanky, dark brown hair and greenish eyes, grinned at his lord. "Excellent decision, my lord. I will go and advise your scribe of this momentous decision at once." He made as if to rise, and everyone laughed at the shared joke.

"See, master Elf! Didn't I tell you?" Gimli turned to Legolas smirking. But Legolas only turned his piercing gaze calmly to his friend.

"And now for the other part of our deal," Legolas said. "Let us go to Fangorn and set the score right."

Gimli blanched. "You do know that it's dangerous in that forest?"

Legolas grinned. "Not any more dangerous than in those caves of yours."

"That is not true. My caves are not inhabited by any dangerous creatures, be they Ents, Huorns, or what have you," Gimli objected frowning at the elf.

"I thought dwarves aren't afraid of anything that goes bump in the night?" I asked Gimli jokingly. The dwarf blushed promptly.

"No, that we aren't, my lady," he said grumpily. "But Fangorn… that's plain uncanny. How about we go to Lórien? There's trees there a-plenty!"

Legolas gave Gimli a highly amused look. "Really? You suggest a wood with even taller trees?"

Gimli only growled in answer. Legolas held out his hand to the dwarf. "First to Fangorn, then to Lórien. What say you?"

Gimli sighed. "As if I did not know that you will drag me to Mirkwood after that. But remember that you promised to accompany me to Esgaroth and Dale."

Legolas echoed the dwarf's sigh. "Never fear, I remember very well what promises I made in the heat of the moment."

But they shook hands solemnly, sealing their plans for the next months.

This reminded me of something. "Gimli, do you remember a promise you gave me, concerning a certain Elvish jewel?"

Gimli's face brightened at once. "Of course I do. You will want the setting ready for the wedding, won't you, Lothíriel?"

I smiled happily. "That was my thought. Only, there's more. Lord Glorfindel sent me two smaller gems of the same kind of jewel. I think perhaps they might be fashioned as ear rings to go with the necklace? I would pay for them, of course."

"No, you won't." Gimli glared at me. "Don't insult me. I promised you the necklace months ago. What are two wee ear bobs on top of that? And I could not think of any more fitting wedding gift than making the jewellery for the bride. And no greater honour for me as your friend to be allowed to do this for you. Now, why don't you get those pretties out that I might have another look at them? And I would take them with me to Dale, for there are the best smithies to be found at the moment."

I must have looked a little dubious, for Gimli raised his bushy eyebrows, his eyes blazing. "I will guard the jewels with my life, you know that. And I will be on time. I promise."

Legolas added, "You can trust him. I will watch over him—and your jewels!"

Gimli turned and glared at him.

I rose from my chair and laughingly fled to my room to get the jewels.

When I returned, the sun shone directly on the terrace. I hesitated for a moment at the corner of the hall, watching the scene before me. Arwen and Aragorn were sitting side by side, holding hands, completely gone on each other. Éowyn and Faramir were not present; they were out riding with Míri. Imrahil was off somewhere, too, together with the Lords Grimsir and Eutharich—politics and trading agreements on their minds.

Éomer was laughing about one of Gimli's jokes. But I could see that he was not really relaxed. His new duties and responsibilities as a king weighed heavily on his heart. I was glad that Frohwein had agreed to be Éomer's squire. I knew he would be far more than the guy who lugged some extra weapons for the king around. He'd double as friend and advisor and throw in his life to protect his king if need be. I was glad that Éomer would not be completely alone with so much difficult work and no friend to advise him during the next months. I contemplated, not for the first time either, that we would probably miss Gandalf forever and a day.

When I approached the table, Éomer looked up and his eyes sparkled with those strange flecks of amber fire in the sun. My heart skipped a beat, as it always did, when he looked at me that way. I sat down next to him and laid the three jewels on the table in front of Gimli. "Here they are. What do you think?"

Gimli sighed happily at the sight of the green beryl jewels sparkling in the sunlight. Then he took them up one after the other and held them up against the sun. At last he whistled appreciatively. "My lady, you have a very good friend in the Lord Glorfindel. These are really some of the most beautiful green beryl jewels I have ever seen. When they are properly set in gold, they will make the green of your eyes gleam like another set of beryl jewels. I will see to that. As I have promised."

"Thank you," I replied simply. I could not imagine that my eyes would ever gleam like any Elvish jewel, but I knew better than to contradict the romantic dwarf.

"You do have the most interesting eyes," Arwen remarked, startling me completely.

I blinked at her in astonishment. "My eyes are as interesting as a muddy puddle."

"Let me assure you… _meine Liebe,_ they are not," Éomer murmured, turning me around to face him. "They are as changeable as the sea, or as a great forest in a strong wind. Brown and green and golden, light and dark, depending on your moods. They remind me of amber." He raised my hand to his lips and dropped a soft kiss on my betrothal ring.

My heart was beating in my mouth, my connection to the earth and reality almost severed by Éomer's hypnotic, dark voice and his beautiful eyes. "If you say so," I finally breathed and exhaled deeply, trying to get a hold on myself again. He enjoyed doing that to me. I kept thinking that I should manage to disconcert him in the same way, but I never seemed to get there.

The sound of chuckling—Gimli and Aragorn—brought me finally back to the world. I glared at them. Especially at Aragorn. Making goo-goo eyes at Arwen and laughing about my infatuation with Éomer at the same time, should not be allowed.

"Take the jewels, Gimli, and I hope your art will keep your promise of magnificence, just as you told me," Éomer told Gimli, carefully returning the jewels to their velvet bag and passing the bag to the dwarf.

The dwarf got to his feet and bowed to Éomer. His face was very solemn when he spoke. "I, Gimli, son of Glóin, promise to use all my art and experience to create the most beautiful jewellery any queen of Rohan has ever worn. So do I swear, aver and affirm, and should I not hold this oath, the fires of the dragons may take me forever."

"That was unnecessary," Éomer smiled and held his hand out to the dwarf. "You are my friend, and I trust you in every way there is."

Gimli took the proffered hand and smiled. "But it is custom among my people to seal any promise with a proper oath. We do not give promises lightly. And this task is not a task to be taken lightly. And I don't. And I would honour our customs of old as long as Middle-earth holds."

"And you keep telling me that I am too solemn for my own good…" Legolas commented, shaking his head at Gimli.

Gimli sat back down and put the small bag with the jewels away. From there the talk turned to lighter matters, my encounter with the ledgers of the royal household – what I had learned in the few weeks at Rivendell of the runes currently in use in Middle-earth had not been up to the ledgers – and the puppies of Gwirith tumbling about the Hall of Meduseld.

As the puppies were too young to be parted from their mother when I had to leave for Dol Amroth, Éomer would keep my pup along with his and train them together. I was a little disappointed about this, but there was simply no way of taking the little dog with me.

But Éomer had allowed me to choose names for the dogs. Drawing on Norse mythology I had come up with "Freki" and "Geri". Although the grey hounds of Rohan were usually named in Sindarin in reverence to Oromë the hunter, the God the Rohirrim honoured above all other Valar, Éomer liked my choice, after I had explained what the names meant. Geri and Freki are the wolves accompanying the God Odin. In Walhalla they sit at his feet and eat whatever food he gives to them, for the God Himself only takes the wine of the feasts served in this hallowed hall. Our Geri and Freki were pretty greedy about their food, too. They were sucking as much as they might and were by far the largest puppies of the litter. They would grow into fine, kingly dogs for Éomer.

I would get a chance at a dog of my own when I'd come to live in Edoras for good.

**oooOooo**

Legolas and Gimli left again early in the morning on the next day.

I had no time to mourn their departure. Éowyn, Míriël and Mistress Gosvintha kept me busy with the intricacies of the royal household. The ledgers were only the tip of an iceberg.

If anyone ever offers you to become a queen, think twice.

No. Don't think twice. Just turn around and run.

The only good thing about my introduction to the duties of a queen was that it kept me too busy to think about letters and friends I would never see again.

I was up before dawn and on my feet until way after sunset.

Those damned ledgers with their spidery, crabbed handwriting started haunting my dreams in next to no time. If I ever learned how to read them, I would probably lose my eyesight before the first snow. I should have done more history of law at university. I know that they worked with the original medieval folios during one or two classes of history of law.

You just never know when something you have learned will come in handy.

**oooOooo**

The days flew by. Bemused, I stared at the date I had just written down in my journal.

**ooo**

_30th of August, 30th of Úrimë._

_Tomorrow we will leave for Minas Tirith. Aragorn has been growing restless during the last week. There's this progress through his kingdom that he still has to complete before winter._

_It's not as if they did not use the time in Rohan well—with councils, audiences, negotiations about trading and troops, the confirmation of contended borderlines, the treatment of Easterlings and Southrons and God knows what else._

_If I sound as if I am gnashing my teeth a little, then it is because I **am** doing just that._

**ooo**

I was busy, Éomer was busy. We hardly ever saw each other. A few dinners, a few breakfasts, a few trips, a few walks, a few conversations and very, very few opportunities to kiss or make out.

Talk about the daily grind.

I would not gripe so much if there had been a little ground for a more _intimate_ grinding—one body against the other, if you take my meaning. But, of course, there was no such thing. Damn Éomer and his morals. I know I should not be bitching that way. His purpose was only to honour me. Only when I thought about those long, lonely months of fall and winter, I felt that I could do without so much honour.

Damn, why the hell was I crying like a child? I was still in Edoras right now. I should simply enjoy this evening.

And I would be back, after all.

**oooOooo**

As if to mock me, the morning of the first of September dawned bright and beautiful.

Apart from a few fluffy white clouds the sky was a deep, ultramarine blue, and the sun was warm and golden. The air was still and clear like glass. The white peaks of the Ered Nimrais stood out in sharp contrast to the blue of the sky. Every crag seemed to be visible, and from the hill of Meduseld you had the most amazing view of the wide rolling plains of the Mark. The grass on the plains of the Mark had dried to a dun golden colour that reminded me of Éomer's hair. The soft breeze that swept down from the mountains today moved the tall grasses in many flowing, rustling waves.

Although the birches and elder trees of Rohan were still green with summer, it was obvious that fall was close at hand. I recognized the crystalline quality of the day from holidays spent in the South of France eons ago. The atmosphere is only this clear and still on the brink of fall, on the very last days of summer, when the halcyon days have already slipped away.

I would be riding Mithril on my way back to Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth. Éowyn had made her a gift to me. She wanted to keep Brego, her cousin's horse, and a single rider can't exercise two Mearas. Nevertheless it was hard for her to let go of the horse she took from its mother right after birth, fed through many nights and days and trained through many years for riding and battle with much patience and love. She cried into Mithril's mane. I ignored her tear streaked face and embraced her. "I have never received such a precious gift, Éowyn. You know that I will take good care of her. She's my friend."

Éowyn dashed impatiently at her eyes. "I know. You need a _Meara_ as the future queen of Rohan. And you'll never be able to get one for yourself. Brego should have been killed and buried with Theodred… A riderless _Meara_ means misfortune…" She sighed. "So this is truly the best solution for Mithril and for Brego." She hugged me back. "And for you, too. Take care, _sweostor min_, my sister. And take care of _brydguma min_, of my fiancé." She insisted on introducing simple words of Rohirric to me on the sly. So far, I had no trouble understanding her. I was pretty sure it wouldn't stay like that.

"Take care yourself, and watch out for Éomer," I whispered into her ear.

"Of course I will, silly," she replied. "Keep up your sword practice and see that you learn Rohirric. I expect you to do well when you return here to take over from me."

"I will do my very best," I answered her. I had to keep swallowing because of my sentimental tear ducts. "I promise."

She let go of me and grinned grimly. "I shall expect exactly that. Your very, very best."

I gulped. If I didn't do my very best, Éowyn would want to know the reason why. If I needed a threat to push myself even harder, this was it. Gods, how I would miss Éowyn!

Éowyn would remain at Edoras until a few weeks before her wedding. It had been agreed that we would all meet at Minas Tirith in April. Éowyn would be married in May in Ithilien as this would be her home with Faramir. It was hoped that at least a part of Osgiliath could be rebuilt until then. Gimli had promised dwarvish help, and Legolas wanted to come and live in Ithilien with a company of Wood-elves from Mirkwood. They would help with replanting the gardens of the destroyed cities of Minas Tirith and Osgiliath.

Then it was Éomer's turn to bid me goodbye.

He kissed me on each cheek and drew me close against his chest. I inhaled the spicy, male scent that was all Éomer, and all love, mingled with desire. I could not say anything. I just sobbed like a child. He held me close until I calmed down.

Then he bent his head and murmured ever so softly, "Don't cry, _lufian min_, my love. It's only a couple of months. And they will be busy months for both of us. You will hardly notice the passage of time. After all, we will meet again at Éowyn's wedding, and that's already in nine months. And after that it's only a few months to our wedding, and then we will never be parted again."

"I know, I know," I replied, my voice muffled against his tunic of soft cream coloured leather. But I needed another couple of minutes until I regained enough of my composure to let go of him. Whenever had he become so important to me? Somehow it felt to me as if he was the very breath that kept me alive, as if he was the anchor that kept me afloat in a stormy sea, as if he was all in one person, in one loving heart what all of Middle-earth was to me: the home of my soul, meine Seelenheimat.

But in the end I did let go. I mounted Mithril and walked her to Míri's side, who was on her calm brown mare, Dorry. Imrahil was on his fierce, black stallion, patiently waiting for Éomer and me to finish our goodbyes.

Éomer mounted Hiswa. Frohwein was already on his horse, one of the rare half-blood Meara, a piebald stallion called magpie. Behind them an honour guard of noble riders, famous warriors and high ranking captains of the Rohirric cavalry waited on their pure white Mearas to escort us to the border of Rohan—nothing but the best for the King of Gondor and the betrothed of the King of Rohan.

At last Frohwein raised the great silver horn of Eorl to his lips and blew it lustily. Bright and glad sounded the call of the horn across the plains. I knew that signal by now. It signalled "get going" in times of peace.

Frohwein and Aragorn's herald rode at the front of the train, carrying the banners with the royal colours of Rohan and Gondor. Behind them followed the two kings, riding companionably side by side. Arwen and I rode behind them, and after us came Míri, Imrahil and Faramir, along with the other lords and ladies that had accompanied our journey to Edoras and had not yet returned home. At our sides the royal guards rode in two grim columns. The sunlight glittered brightly on shields, helmets and the silver mail of the warriors.

Our company was magnificent to behold. When the Rohirric guards started singing one of their marching songs, my heart finally lifted.

I would survive a few months away from Éomer. I had survived being kidnapped by orcs. How much worse could it be to be parted from Éomer for some months and learning sword fighting and Rohirric from Elrond's sons?


	68. A Magic Dwells in Each Beginning

**68.** **A Magic Dwells in Each Beginning**

Éomer and his guard escorted us for half a day's ride, then they turned back to Edoras.

We would be much faster on our way to Minas Tirith than we had been coming to Edoras as the funeral escort of Théoden. I guessed we would need about twelve days, as we were travelling with a much smaller entourage and just a few carriages.

On the third day we had left the Dwimorberg behind us and were in the middle of the Eastfold. The woods on the foothills of the Ered Nimrais were already changing colour. Summer was over. For a moment I halted Mimi. By now I felt completely safe on her back. Although I still controlled her mainly by speaking to her in Sindarin, I was by now well able to control her paces with the reins and the nudges of my legs against her sides. But I really preferred talking to her. She was my friend. It's nicer to talk to your friend than to kick a friend. Even if that friend is a horse.

From my vantage point, I could see the glittering floods of the Anduin as a faint silver ribbon some thirty miles to the north. The fertile plains of the Eastfold had turned to gold, and the soft September breeze whispered among the grasses and the fields of barley, wheat and corn that surrounded the village nestling in a low dell just a few miles away from us. In the blue sky above us eagles were wheeling, searching for prey.

In Rohan wilderness and civilization blended together harmoniously. I think that was what I loved most about my new home. You had the freedom of wide plains and wild mountains, but there were also sheltered villages and towns, farms with fields and orchards, well-maintained roads that made you feel safe and at home.

Tomorrow we would reach Mering Stream and the borderline. I sighed. Then I rubbed the sleeve of my shirt across my forehead. It was still warm, and now, at noon, after riding five hours, I was hot and sweaty. Mithril felt good and solid between my legs. She snorted softly, as if to ask why we were stopping here when the others were riding on. I patted her neck, but was reluctant to go on. I wanted to fix my image of Rohan in my mind, so that I would not forget my new home during the long months of fall and winter in Gondor. Also, every mile added to the distance between Éomer and me seemed to increase a sensation of gnawing pain in my heart. I had never missed someone like that before. There was a constant lump in my throat, a heavy weight in my stomach, an ache in my very bones. When had that happened? How had it happened?

How does love grow?

Mimi neighed softly and shook her head. I turned around and noticed Arwen riding towards us. Arwen enjoyed the journey. Getting away from the place where she had had to bid her father farewell was good for her. Although she was still pale and quiet, her grief had subsided a little. "Aragorn is worried," Arwen called out to me. "Is something wrong?"

I shook my head and told Mimi to get going. When I was riding along next to Arwen, I explained, "I just want to make sure that I remember what Rohan looks like. And… I don't really want to leave. I know it's better that way, and I am really looking forward to spending the winter with your brothers, but still…"

Arwen shuddered in mock horror, then she grinned at me impishly. "I would not be looking forward to having Elladan and Elrohir as teachers; they are not nearly as patient as my Ada."

I smiled back at her. When she talked about her father, her eyes darkened; but it was good to know that she could talk about him. "What can't be cured, must be endured…" I replied. "And I guess I don't need patient teachers. I need to learn a lot, and quickly."

"They will make sure of that," Arwen promised. "Race me?"

"You'll lose. _Mearas_ are faster than Elvish horses."

The Queen of Gondor raised a delicately slanted black eyebrow at me. "Are you willing to bet on that?"

"Okay—let's do it. On the count of three."

Together we called out the numbers, "One, two, and THREE!"

"_Celeg!_ Fast!" I screamed at Mithril and ducked low against her neck. Mithril's muscles bunched together and off we were, racing along the road. The rush of speed made my heart race; the wind drove tears to my eyes. Out of the corners of my eyes I saw a grey blur coming closer. Damn, Elvish horses are fast!

"**_Celeg, celeg!_** MITHRIL!" I shouted, crouching lower against Mithril's back to offer less resistance to the air. Mithril sped up. She was as swift as a storm wind, a silver arrow released from the bow. But Arwen kept up. Could it be possible?

Suddenly Arwen was level with me.

"CELEG!" I cried again, and with another immense burst of speed, Mithril was away.

Suddenly I grew aware of my surroundings again.

We had passed the company. We had won!

I slowed Mithril down, allowing her to change her paces smoothly and slowly. Finally we were down to an easy walk. Mithril was breathing heavily and her coat was wet with sweat. But she snorted happily, turning her head as if to see why it was taking Arwen and her grey steed such a long time to catch up with us. When Arwen reached us, her cheeks were red from the exercise, her eyes were bright, and she was smiling happily. "I have to admit, Mearas are faster than Elvish horses," she told me admiringly. "Mithril is a miracle."

"You were not so bad yourself," I commented. "For a moment or two I thought you'd get me. I think Mithril likes racing."

Arwen looked my horse up and down. "Yes, she sure looks very proud of herself. And look, she's not even gasping! And only a little sweaty!"

Indeed, Mithril was walking along the road as if nothing had happened. I stroked her still slightly damp neck, promising her all kinds of treats when we made camp tonight.

"We'd better wait for the company," I said when I straightened up. "We are about three miles ahead of them… with no guards."

Arwen made a face. "Aragorn acts as if I was a frail princess. It's not as if cannot fight."

I shrugged. "But _I_ cannot fight, and there's really no need to risk our lives in peacetime. I don't want to entice any idiot robbers or muggers into giving me another couple of scars. I am quite content with the collection I've got already."

Arwen sighed, but she halted her horse. The grey mare with the name of Hithlain nickered inquiringly, but did as she was bid. Mithril simply lowered her neck, starting to graze at the side of the road. Half an hour later the company reached us. Aragorn scolded Arwen, Míri reprimanded me. Arwen put up an eloquent defence, which put a look of despair on Aragorn's face. I meekly accepted Míri's rebuke. She was right: it had been a dangerous stunt and certainly not appropriate behaviour for the Queen of Gondor and the future Queen of Rohan.

But I had thoroughly enjoyed myself—and for the time being I did not even feel miserable anymore at leaving Rohan, so our little escapade had been well worth the scolding.

**oooOooo**

We did not even need twelve days to reach Minas Tirith. We passed the Forannest in the afternoon of the eleventh day on the road. The white walls of Minas Tirith gleamed in the evening sun as we rode across the lifeless and desolate fields of the Pelennor on the eleventh of September.

This time I would stay in the guest quarters of the royal palace. As we passed by the white villa on the sixth circle of the city, I felt a small pang of regret at the happy times I had spent there with my friends from the fellowship. _Those were the days…_

Lord Húrin of the Keyes was happy to welcome back the King and Steward. Leaving the country for weeks such a short time after claiming the throne had been risky. But Aragorn had been lucky. Nothing had happened… apart from a minor squabble between the ambassadors of Harondor and Khand about the choice of mansions for the embassy and a skirmish between the guard of Ithilien and a troop of orcs close to the Morgul Pass. One warrior was killed, two were wounded. No orc had survived. Business as usual.

When I finally entered Míri's and Ada's apartments after seeing to Mimi, I was assaulted by a screaming and yelling horde.

The horde turned out to be Mel and Númendil, with a laughing Elphir following a little slower behind them.

Ada had been absolutely correct. The boys did want an older sister. I don't understand their reasoning. Perhaps they thought I would be less strict with them than Míri – as if I would ever get a chance… Perhaps they wanted to practice knightly behaviour. That is what Elphir told me, anyway. Elphir had to excuse himself for the evening, because he was on duty tonight, which I thought was a little mean, as he had been on duty throughout our trip to Rohan and back as captain of the guard. But he took that in stride. I think he enjoys the responsibility. He will come to Dol Amroth at the beginning of November with the King and the Queen when they finish the royal progress. And he hopes that it will be possible for him to come and visit us at Dol Amroth around mid-winter. I'd like that, I think. I would like to get to know my older brother. Up until now I have barely talked to him. And although he is always very friendly and charming towards me, I feel a little apprehensive about him. After all, the dead Lothíriel was his twin sister.

So the little ones huggled me, and Mel insisted on sitting on my lap in the living room when they were treated to a full account of our stay in Rohan.

I don't understand the boys. But perhaps I don't have to understand them. I guess I can settle for simply being happy at having two younger brothers who love me, and whom I adore, and an older brother, whom I adore and who is a friend to me, even though I have in effect replaced his dead twin.

A maid servant had lit the fire and a joss stick that filled the room with a spicy fragrance of cinnamon and ginger. The little boy on my knees was a warm and heavy weight. Now and again he squirmed with laughter at his father's funny way of telling about our experiences with Rohirric customs. His soft, light brown hair was silky against my cheeks and smelled of honey.

Imrahil looked at us and smiled. His strange pale grey eyes were full of warmth, and I knew that he did not only smile at his youngest son, but that he smiled at me, too.

A sudden, unexpected feeling of warmth flooded me. Political considerations notwithstanding, I had found a family with the Prince of Dol Amroth, his wife and children. A real family. People who belonged to me. People I belonged to. People who genuinely cared for me.

Suddenly I remembered a poem that I had learned by heart to please the mother of my step-father when I was fourteen, and the old lady had to stay in a hospital for a few weeks. It was the poem "Steps", by Herman Hesse. It is a poem about beginnings and endings, about saying farewell and going on. I was never able to recall every verse of the poem after I had recited it for my grandmother. But now I remembered one verse very clearly.

**oooOooo**

_"At life's each call the heart must be prepared  
to take its leave and to commence afresh,  
courageously and with no hint of grief  
submit itself to other, newer ties.  
A magic dwells in each beginning and  
protecting us it tells us how to live."_

_"Es muss das Herz bei jedem Lebensrufe  
bereit zum Abschied sein und Neubeginne,  
um sich in Tapferkeit und ohne Trauern  
in and're, neue Bindungen zu geben.  
Und jedem Anfang wohnt ein Zauber inne,  
der uns beschützt und der uns hilft zu leben."_

**oooOooo**

As I sat there listening to my new Ada, my new little brother cuddled against me, I felt sure that this new beginning of my life was protected by a kind of magic, or perhaps the blessing of the Valar. I had been ready to leave the world I was born in for a world of war and danger. Now I had to be ready to live in this world, in this new age.

But I was glad that I would not have to do it alone.

**oooOooo**

We stayed in Minas Tirith for three days only, as long as it took to prepare for the journey back to Dol Amroth. Although I have to admit that I did not make it through my goodbyes to Arwen and Aragorn without tears, there were few. The royal progress would take Aragorn and Arwen to Dol Amroth at the beginning of November, so we would see each other again soon.

Travelling with a carriage and the ponies of Mel and Númendil slowed us down on our way back to Dol Amroth. We achieved a speed of a little more than thirty miles a day, which is still pretty fast, but nevertheless we needed a week to get from Minas Tirith to Tarnost. Racing Mithril I had made the same distance within three days… But the weather stayed fine. It was a golden, balmy fall, just as it had been a glorious, hot summer. It was also a lot of fun to travel with the boys. For them the journey was a big adventure. It was also the first time in years their father had the time and the peace to spend his days with the boys. Imrahil and his sons could not be parted: they were riding, fishing, hunting, bathing, eating and sleeping together.

We reached Tarnost on the twenty-first of September – it was a cloudy day, with only a pale sun and a stormy wind that blew the first yellow and orange leaves from the branches of the trees, but it was not really cold and there was no rain, so our journey had been quite pleasant that day. We were welcomed by the Lord of Tarnost, Dorlas, and his lovely wife, Melisande, with a ceremonial goblet of white wine. I enjoyed the wine, because it gave me the courage to talk to Lady Míriël about seeking the aid of the Lady Elaine.

**oooOooo**

"So you have a… stick in your arm that prevents you from conceiving a child. And it has to be taken out now so that you will be able to conceive in a year's time." Elaine summarized what I had just explained to her. There was a gleam of fascination in her eyes.

I gulped. I was not exactly looking forward to having a knife put to my arm with no anaesthetics at all. "Well, I am not sure how long my body will take to go back to normal. So I thought I might as well get it over with now, just to be sure."

Míri nodded approvingly and patted my tense shoulders to calm me.

"Let me see your arm, please," Elaine said.

I held my bared left arm out to her, pointing out the placement of the implant.

Carefully the healer stroked across the skin of my arm. "Yes, there is something under your skin," she said slowly, with the barest hint of curiosity in her voice. "About an inch in length, I think. It feels like a twig, or a fish bone, very thin. It is not deep. Have you any suggestion how to remove it?"

I looked at my arm and felt sick. "Make a small incision and try to pull it out with tweezers? I think it will be… _er…_ stuck to the," I gulped again, "…to the flesh."

Elaine ran her fingers across my arm again. She nodded to herself. "Yes, I think so, too. It would be the best way and the scar would be small."

_Yes… And with the methods of the twenty-first century back on Earth, there would be no scar at all if you don't have a particularly sensitive skin… _But right now I felt that I wouldn't complain about a small scar if it was over quickly.

Elaine made me lie down on the table of the surgery and had Míri hold down my arm. She swabbed the skin with alcohol to disinfect it. I tried to relax.

She took up the scalpel from a silver tray her maid-servant held out to her.

I still tried to relax and looked straight at the ceiling of the room, trying to think of… _anything…_ anything at all but my arm and that scalpel.

I tried to relax.

I yelled bloody murder.

I felt a warm flood of blood running across my arm.

Then Elaine reached for the tweezers.

"Yes, I can see it. It's white and pliable," Elaine said calmly. "There! I've got it. Now we'll have to see how closely it is embedded in your flesh."

She tugged at the tweezers.

I screamed in a very undignified way. It was not a _terrible_ pain. But it was rather much more painful than I had expected it to be without having a spot of anaesthetics first to numb my arm.

"Well, I guess I'll have to pull harder," Elaine said. "Brace yourself. This time I'll get it."

I did brace myself.

I am proud to say that I did not scream again.

She got it out this time.

She needed only one stitch to close the cut. The blood was washed off and the wound was bound tightly in a moment.

I felt slightly dizzy when I sat up, and my arm pulsed with red-hot pain. But altogether I had expected it to be worse.

Elaine held out the small silver tray with the Implanon to us. I sighed as I looked down at the small white stick on the tray, lying in a spot of wet blood. With this the last connection to the world of my birth was irrevocably cut. Cut in the truest sense of the meaning.

Míri and Elaine looked at the small white plastic strip in fascination.

"And this does exactly what?" Elaine asked again. Obviously the healer wanted to know more about hormones and how they worked in the human body.

"Would you mind very much if I tried to explain what I know about the medicine of the world where I was born another time? I don't really feel up to it right now," I said plaintively.

Elaine sighed a little; plainly impatient with me, but then she smiled. "No, of course not. I could come and visit you during the winter, and then we could talk about how healing is done where you grew up."

"You would be very welcome," Míri told the formidable healer of Tarnost.

"I did mention that I have only a very faint knowledge of medicine – er – healing, didn't I? I studied law, not medicine," I commented. I did not really think that I would be able to tell Elaine anything really interesting.

But the healer only shrugged and smiled. "Anything new at all is always welcome."

"If you say so," I said dubiously.

Then I retired with Míri to the great hall of Tarnost and a fortifying mug of mulled cider.

**oooOooo**

I was lucky. The cut did not get infected and the scar that remained was almost invisible. Two days later, when we hit the road again for the last leg of our journey, only a more or less painful blue and green bruise reminded me of where the Implanon had resided for the last twenty months. I have to admit though that I was hoping that my body would take its time getting back to normal, painful monthlies.

**oooOooo**

We arrived at Dol Amroth late in the evening of the 29th of September.

I knew that I would stay in Dol Amroth for six months, and I have to admit I was glad about it. It was time to stay in one and the same place for a bit. A year of never remaining in any one place for longer than a month simply takes its toll. It would be great to wake up in the morning without this weird feeling of confusion about where I was. I went to bed and fell asleep at once, exhausted from almost a month of riding from Edoras to Dol Amroth, but happy. I was sure that I would wake in the morning with no doubt at all about where I was.

I liked that thought.

I probably fell asleep with a smile on my face.

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **The excellent translation of the poem is by Mervyn Savill.


	69. A New Family

**Tolkien wrote (in letter number 131):** "The cycles (of the body of legend to be created – he's referring to Middle Earth and its tales) should be linked to a majestic whole, **and yet leave scope for other minds and other hands**, wielding paint and music and drama."

* * *

**Shameless plug: **There's a new short story up that ties in loosely with "Lothíriel". It was written for the HASA-WorldWarI-poem's challenge. Lady Lanet has called it "morbid". Elven Script and Mija like it (thanks!). Go and have a look and tell me what you think, please!

* * *

**69. A New Family**

When I woke in the morning of the 30th of September, the sea was hidden by soft white mists. Summer was gone, now it was time for cooler days of softer colors.

I slipped out from my warm covers and padded across the smooth wooden floor to the large window with the cushioned window seat. I opened the window and, kneeling down on the red cushions, propped my elbows on the window sill to have a look outside.

Somewhere down below the waves lapped softly against the rocks of the cliffs on which the great castle of Dol Amroth has been built many centuries ago. The air was mild and humid, it tasted cool and salty. For a while I watched the drifting swirls of mist, feeling utterly peaceful inside. From somewhere below I heard the sounds of creaking wood and the muffled voices of men. Probably some fishermen.

* * *

Finally I drew back and closed the window again. Almost at the same time a light knock sounded at the door and a maid-servant entered, carrying a white porcelain ewer with a wisp of steam curling above it. "Thank you," I told the girl and smiled at her, when she carefully placed the ewer next to the washing bowl. The girl bobbed a polite curtsy, and then disappeared as quickly as she had come.

A bell tolled somewhere. Eight o'clock already. For once I had slept late. Time to get ready. This morning my adoption would be registered.

I washed with the hot water, pure luxury after weeks on the road. And real soap, lavender, too, I love the smell, and really does keep lice and things off.

I dressed quickly, in somber colors, thanking the Lady Darla in my mind. The clothes fit perfectly, made me look much better than I really do, **and** they were comfortable.

* * *

With the Prince in residence, breakfast was taken in the dining room. The dining room was a rectangular room facing the sea. The architecture of the room was purist. There were no columns carved with fancy designs, no painted ceiling. The sea side wall sported the wealth of this room, in a row of Romanesque windows sat with clear panes of thick glass. On the opposite wall a large tapestry was hung that showed a fleet of swan shaped sailing ships floating before a rising sun. There was also a fire place stocked with thick logs, but for the time being it was still comfortably warm without a fire in the morning.

When I entered the room, Prince Imrahil was already seated at the head of a large mahogany table. To his left sat the Lady Míriël, to his right was his squire, Gawin. Next to Gawin sat Númendil and Mel. They turned their heads to me and smiled, and I felt once again this silly surge of happiness at the knowledge that I really belonged.

I went to Imrahil and he turned his cheek so that I could kiss him good morning. "Morning, Ada," I said, and my voice was filled with a smile. I had spent a lot of time with Imrahil on the journey from Edoras to Dol Amroth. The result was that I did not stumble about the form of address with him any more. Arwen had seen to that. Elves are sneaky; I think I have mentioned that before. Imrahil smiled at me, too. "Sleepy head."

I shrugged, and walked the long way round the table to Míri, so that I could tousle Mel's hair in the passing. He stuck out his tongue to me. I winked at him.

I slid down on the chair next to Míri, giving her a good morning-peck on the cheek, too.

"Did you sleep well?" Míri asked. "I was wondering if you would perhaps like to have another room. The guest room is really small and sometimes the sea is so loud you can barely sleep in fall and winter, when the storms blow from the West."

I nodded gratefully at Enho who poured me some tírithel as soon as I had settled down in my chair. "No, Míri, please, let me stay in that room. I love it. I love the window across the sea. I could spend hours in that window seat, just dreaming away into the West."

Imrahil smiled at that. "Hear, hear, Lothíriel the poet."

I grinned at the Prince, who was incidentally a well known poet himself. "I don't really think so, Ada. But the view of the western horizon touches the soul, somehow."

Imrahil nodded, his long silvery-blond hair falling across his face. Absent minded he pushed the long silky tresses behind his shoulder. I felt Míri sigh a little next to me. I had the feeling that she had enjoyed feeling this wealth of long silky hair across her body in a real bed for once. But that was probably not a proper thought for an adopted daughter to have.

"Yes," Imrahil said thoughtfully. "The view of the western light wakes a deep yearning in our souls. And here in Dol Amroth you are as far west as you can get in Arda and not be on an island. We are blessed to have this view. Although the place to pray to Eru is, of course, as is fitting the Meneltarma, the peak of the mountain, I have always felt that I had to reach out for the western horizon in thought when I asked for the blessing of the Valar."

For a while everyone was silent, eating porridge, drinking tírithel, letting the thoughts drift.

"How will this adoption business work? You said it would be done today?" I asked finally.

Míri shook her head at my manner of speech, but she answered nevertheless. "It is really simple. We have had the scribe draw up a document and the smith has fashioned a seal for you. The wording of the document will be read out. You sign the document, first Imrahil, and then you. Then you put your seals beneath your signature. That's it. Really simple, compared to working out your marriage contract."

"My…what?" I gaped at her.

Míri raised a dark eyebrow at me and smiled a little mockingly at me. "I thought you said that you have studied law? Surely even where you were born people set up marriage contracts?"

My heart was suddenly thumping painfully in my chest, and in my mind I looked into a pair of laughing dark eyes. "No, I mean yes," I said breathlessly. "Yes, of course, we have marriage contracts. I just…" I trailed off helplessly, while Mel giggled. Imrahil shook his head at his wife. "You should not tease her so. I remember how nervous I was when my father talked about the arrangement of our wedding, hervess-nîn."

"Thank you, Ada," I said, but I smiled at Míri. She in turn squeezed my hand briefly.

"Now, I have some matters to see to, but I think this afternoon at three o'clock we could meet in my study to complete the document mentioned."

I nodded. "Of course."

Imrahil rose from his chair, Gawin followed suit.

"It's been many months now since Imrahil could really look after things here at Dol Amroth. I have managed quite well on my own," Míri explained. "But there are things that I really prefer my husband to deal with." She shuddered. I decided not to ask for details with the children present.

As if on cue, Míri turned to the children. "You two. I have something important to tell you. We have been awarded a high honor. The sons of Lord Elrond Peredhel will come to stay with us for the winter. They will teach you and your sister. Weapons training, as well as studies in the lore of Gondor, writing and reading in Westron and the elvish languages. Just so you are prepared. They will arrive at the end of October, when the King and Queen will come to Dol Amroth on the royal progress. You should therefore enjoy your sweet freedom while it lasts," she told them with a twinkling to her eyes. Númendil's eyes lit up with expectant happiness, Mel looked crestfallen. Both looked at me. "I bet it's only because Lothy gets to marry the King of Rohan." Mel said, indicating that he thought it completely unfair to be cooped up with his brother to study his letters with not one, but two loremasters only because I had to marry a king.

Míri shook her head at her youngest child and gave the little boy a stern look. "No, young master Meluir, that is not the case. You are both old enough for serious study. The sons of Elrond have an errand to complete here. We are very fortunate that they have agreed to stay a little longer to act as your tutors. I expect all of you to do your very best."

The boys nodded timidly. Míri turned to me, her gaze no less stern than when she had looked at the boys. I felt my cheeks grow hot. "You know that I will do everything I can."

_My life depends on it. Hell, Eomer's life depends on it._

Talk about incentives for hard work…

* * *

The morning I spent with the boys. We went to the stables, because I had to check on Mimi.

The Meara was well cared for. And after almost a month of traveling even Mithril seemed to enjoy a quiet day in the stable. But the groom assured me that she would be taken out to the paddock with the other mares tomorrow.

"Where is that paddock?" I asked, because in the small town of Dol Amroth there was surely no room for such a thing.

The old, grizzled man who was the horse-man around here grinned toothlessly at me. "Just outside the walls, it's a good paddock, level, some trees, and no rocks. Well fenced, too. One for the mares and the geldings, one for the stallions."

"We'll show it to you tomorrow," Númendil said importantly.

"Do that, young master, do that," the groom said wheezing a little. Then he turned to me. "But take a guard with you, my lady. The corsairs have been at us four times during the summer. And the raiding season is not yet over."

"Really?" I stared at the old man, feeling shocked and not a little frightened. "I thought that with the enemy destroyed there'd be a little peace, before…"

"That's what the corsairs thought we would think, too." The groom grumbled. "Luckily Anmir thought the same way I do. I always think the worst. It turned out we were the better for us prophets of doom. And a doom for the corsairs and their cheekiness." The groom cackled evilly. "But still, my lady. Don't venture out of the shelter of the town's defenses without a guard. Better safe than sorry. My lady."

I nodded. Somehow I had an idea what the things entailed that Míri did not care to deal with. Executing imprisoned corsairs, for example. I decided that there were maybe some things that I did not want to know about.

We turned back to the castle, walking slowly through the clean, narrow streets of the town of Dol Amroth. Dol Amroth is not a large town, because of the narrow space of the promontory of the Cobas peninsula where it is situated. But the houses are fairly tall and very well built. The stone used for the houses is the grey stone from the quarries of the Dor-en-Ernil, the southern slopes of the hills of Tarnost. It makes for an interesting contrast to the reddish stone of the battlements and the castle, which is the stone of the cliffs around here. The houses are well kept, and delicately carved. There is no marble here, although perhaps there was, in earlier, more peaceful times. There used to be a larger town of Dol Amroth at the center of the peninsula once. But it was destroyed in some war or other. Perhaps during the Last Alliance. Since then Dol Amroth consists of the small town on the promontory, the castle behind it, perched precariously above the sea, and the harbor and the fishing village down at the foot of the cliffs.

Come to think of it, at the moment all of Gondor boasted one city: Minas Tirith. And all of Gondor's splendor was centered there. Osgiliath and Pelargir the two other cities that had made it to the end of the third age, were in ruins. Osgiliath was almost completely annihilated and what had been told about the situation at Pelargir had not sounded really encouraging. Pinnath Galen, Tarnost, Cair Andros, Firien, Dol Amroth, Edhellond, Anfalas and Linhir were not cities, but towns. And apart from that there were only villages.

It would take centuries to wake splendor in all of Gondor.

A madman (or should I say monster? I am not sure if Sauron ever was anything like a man) full of complexes and fixated on ruling the world is not exactly beneficial to a country's economical and political situation.

I would be sure to take a guard when I left the safety of Dol Amroth. I did not want to end up at the mercy of some pirates. I also did not want to incur Eomer's – or worse, Eowyn's wrath.

* * *

Lunch was eaten more or less in passing. We simply went down to the kitchen and had the cook ladle some delicious hot stew into our bowls and ate it at the large, square kitchen table. The main meal of the days would be served in the great hall, with the dignitaries of Dol Amroth town and village and castle in attendance.

Míriël told me to wear a dress for the occasion. I opened my mouth to argue, and then closed it again at her icy look. When in Rome do as the Romans do. My, am I glad that I fell in love with a Rohirrim, where women's couture is viewed more in terms of "can you ride while wearing that" than anything else. Not that I don't like wearing dresses now and then – I am not Eowyn. But I feel so damn self-conscious in those lavish gowns of Gondorian and Rohirric nobility. As if I was dressing up for a costume party. Oh, well. I guess I will get used to it. In twenty years I won't give it any thought at all, probably.

* * *

At three o'clock the family of the Prince of Dol Amroth, his squire, Gawin, his captain, Anmir, his herald, Falanyon, his clerk, Bowman, his scribe, Aleth, and the mayor of Dol Amroth, Samno, the mayor of the fishing village, Gwaeren, were assembled in the great hall.

Why so many men?

Simple. Gondor has chauvinistic laws. Seven witnesses were necessary to make the adoption legal. Seven signatures. By seven free men of Gondor. Men, not women.

But I was allowed to sign myself. It could be worse. There were times on earth, where a signature by a woman was not legally binding. In Gondor it is. If there are no sons, it is the daughter who inherits. If the husband dies and there are no sons, it is the wife who gets it all.

Bowman had drawn up a beautiful document for the adoption. Have you ever seen a medieval document, for example a marriage contract, or a peace treaty?

They are pieces of art. Not just documents. And this one was truly magnificent. The calligraphy was awesome. Every rune looked like a miniature picture. The capitals at the beginning of each sentence were set with gold and blue and every letter adorned with flourishes.

Falanyon read the document out to us. It was really pretty simple and straightforward. It stated that the Prince of Dol Amroth, Imrahil, and his wife, the Lady Míriël, adopted the Lady Lothíriel, daughter of the Lord and Lady Eledhel of Nuremberg, to be their daughter with all rights and duties of this position according to the laws and customs of Gondor.

At the end there was the ritual call upon the Valar and the One to confirm and uphold this act, and the date, the 30th of September, Yavannië.

Then there was room for our signatures and the seals, and the signatures of the witnesses.

When Falanyon had finished reading, the parchment was smoothed down on the table.

A pot of black ink was opened and Imrahil dipped a great white plume of a quill into the ink. He carefully shook off any excess ink and then signed the document in smooth joined-up Sindarin tengwar. Then he offered the quill to me. "There should be enough ink for your signature in it," he told me reassuringly when I looked at the quill suspiciously.

I inhaled shakily and bent down to add my signature to the right-hand side of the document.

For a moment I thought about trying the runes Glorfindel had tried to teach me at Rivendell a year ago, but then I decided against it. I did not want to spoil the document with my inability to write tengwar. Therefore I wrote down my name as I am used to. I wrote my name in the down-to-earth, clear and simple writing style I had used for greeting cards and the like back on earth. "Lothíriel Elbenstern."

The simple signature looked strange next to the flowing, artistic handwriting of Imrahil.

But it was clear and neat. It would endure over the centuries in the archive of Dol Amroth.

I smiled at the thought of what a descendant of Prince Imrahil would one day make of this unusual signature, when he happened upon it in the archive.

Then one after the other the seven witnesses took up the quill and wrote down their names at the bottom of the parchment more or less laboriously. When they were finished, the seal wax was melted. Blue for the Prince. He dripped the wax expertly below his signature, and pressed his seal ring carefully into the hot wax. When he removed it, the design of swan and ship was easily visible in the blue wax. For me they had red wax. Imrahil dribbled the red wax below my signature, and then handed me a small lead seal. Again I had to draw a deep breath. I think my hand was shaking a little bit, when I pressed the seal into the wax. As I waited for the wax to take on the seal, I realized that I did not even know what picture they had chosen for my seal. Finally Imrahil nodded at me and I carefully removed the seal.

When I looked at the picture in the red wax, I sighed with pleasure and surprise. The picture was a delicate blossom, with the tengwar runes for L.E. at the bottom of the flower's stem.

"You will get a new one in a few days," Imrahil remarked as he observed how I stared at my seal. "I thought perhaps we would use the Dol Amroth ship and add your blossom instead of the swan."

"That would be wonderful, Ada." I said.

When I looked up, and looked into his smiling light grey eyes and Míri's darker once, and both of them full of warmth and affection, I thought my heart would melt.

"Thank you," I said. "Thank you."

What else was there to say? For a show of such friendship and magnanimity (not to mention political acumen) there is no praise high enough.

But they both smiled at me and answered in kind. "Thank **you**," they said. "Meliël iëll-mîn, our beloved daughter."

"Is she now our sister?" Mel piped up from the corner of the room. He had observed the proceedings with round eyes and bated breath.

Imrahil nodded. "Yes, she is. Come here and give your sister a kiss."

He did not need to say that twice.

I was at once assaulted by Númendil and Mel. Mel simply jumped me, so that I had to hoist him up into my arms. He put his arms around my neck and gave me two great smacking kisses on the cheeks and one very wet kiss on the mouth. "Meliël muínthel-nîn, my beloved sister," he proclaimed, not to be outdone in dignity by his parents.

I kissed him right back, with tears in my eyes. "Little brother, " I said. "Niben muíndor-nîn." That far my knowledge of Sindarin did stretch by this time.

"Get down," Númendil said impatiently. "I want to welcome our sister, too."

"If you insist…" Mel drawled, but allowed me to let him slide down to the ground.

Númendil embraced me in the manner of an adult, with solemn kisses on either cheek. But his eyes were bright with happiness as he repeated his brother's words. "It's good to have a sister. Welcome, meliël muínthel-nîn."

"It's even better to have a brother like you," I whispered. "Muíndor-nîn."

Then Enho entered the room with a silver tray with many crystal goblets and a jug of red wine. Imrahil toasted me as his daughter. Everyone applauded and drank to me.

I raised my glass to my family, my wonderful, new family and offered a toast of my own. "To my wonderful family. An meleg noss-nîn."

I beamed at my family as the toast was echoed by everyone in the room.

My family!

Proud, noble, kind and cunning, my new Ada, beautiful, loving, smart and witty my Míri, serious and intelligent the heir of Dol Amroth, little Númendil, and cute and funny sweet little Mel.

My family. Not by blood, but by choice and love.

I will never understand how I got so lucky.

* * *

**A/N:** Wheeehehe! I just got two specialist's books about the middle ages for my studies, but I can see already that they will improve this story… one book is about every day life in the middle ages and one is about the position of the queen in the middle ages. Yippee!

**Aelyaniara: **To quote Tolkien, I'm afraid I am as susceptible to flattery as any dragon…

;-) Thank you for your praise, I hope you like this chapter!

**Soccer-Bitch: **Sorry, you'll have to… ;-)

**Crecy**It's good to have you back. I was already worried. I hope all is well with you.

**TPfann: **It's really hard work to be so quick with the updates. Thank you for your compliment!

**RipperAngel: **Was soll ich sagen… nicht einmal neun Jahre an einem bayerischen Gymnasium haben mir meine Freude an Gedichten ausgetrieben…


	70. A Promise, Preparations and a White Ship

**A/N:** I am happy that the chapter made you happy. It made me happy to write it. Of course it was not the chapter I meant to write. But I guess you are used to the fact that with this story I keep promising things that will only happen like five chapters after the one for which they were promised.

BTW: I was forced to make up a list of my characters as I will need a host of servants and stuff shortly. I realize that I messed up the dogs. But I'll let them stay Geri and Freki. Sounds better than Gizmo and Glory. And now I have a nice list, with all the horses and all the men, and the colors of their hair and eyes. Yay!

I often wondered how in hell it can happen that authors mix up the colors of the eyes of my favorite heroes. Now I know. They didn't make a list. Lol

But as I have spent three hours yesterday making that damn list, we should be alright now.

* * *

****

**70. A Promise, Preparations and a White Ship**

When I woke the next morning, I recalled a promise I had made. Well, probably not the minute I woke up, but I was pondering how to ask Míri about this problem as I walked down the stairs to the dining room.

After breakfast, I gathered my courage and approached Míri. "I would like – I don't know if that is appropriate – I would like to see the grave of – my sister. Where I was born, we used to take flowers to the graves of our deceased relatives…"

Míri's eyes misted over and she had to look away for a moment. Finally she said in a soft, husky voice: "I am sure your sister would love that. The guards will take you to the cemetery. It's at the edge of the cliffs out side the town."

Then she hurried from the room.

* * *

For the flowers I went to the flower garden of Dol Amroth. I left the entrance hall for the inner courtyard. The inner courtyard is paved with the smooth grey stone of the Dor-en-Ernil. To the western side a low wall of those grey stones fences it off from the flower garden. The garden is small, but exquisite. Here in the south many exotic flowers can endure outside all year round, and for times of cold weather an orangery, a hothouse, is attached to the kitchen, at the south-western corner of the garden. But as Míri does not care for ostentation of any kind, so there are not many fancy plants around. It would look too cheap, she had told me when she had first shown me around the gardens of Dol Amroth. Therefore the bushes and flowers growing here are for the most part plants that are indigenous to the area of Dol Amroth. Think Mediterranean. Oleander, white jasmine, passion flowers, some roses, a dozen others I cannot name.

I stood on the lawn and stared at the blossoms. Although it was a grey morning, with storm clouds being blown in from the sea, it was still fairly warm and the air in the garden was filled with the sweet fragrance of blossoms.

Míri had allowed me to pick as many flowers as I wanted. But which ones should I choose?

In the end I settled for some star like, periwinkle blue flowers with violet spots at the center of the petals, which reminded me of forget-me-nots. But they were taller, with more blossoms and their sweet, faintly spicy fragrance reminded me of the perfume "wish" from Chopard. In an afterthought I added a lonely white rose to the bouquet.

The bunch of flowers in my hand, careful to hold them upside down to preserve their freshness, I stepped to the red stone wall that ran along the western side of the flower garden. The wall had once been part of the old castle built at the side of the Donjon. The old castle was destroyed hundreds of years ago. The donjon, however is still there, serving as a lighthouse. The remaining walls of the old castle have been preserved, too, to shelter the gardens of Dol Amroth, and as additional defenses. They still stand about one and a half stories high, and the delicate framework of the windows is almost completely unscathed. The windows now open on one side to the sea and to the other on the flower and herb garden of Dol Amroth with the window seats turned into garden benches. It's a beautiful, peaceful garden. A sanctuary.

I sighed a little. There was another sanctuary I had to visit now, if I wanted to be true to my promise. I turned back from the view of the red wall and the green and grey waves in the empty windows.

In the entrance hall of the castle my guards were already waiting for me, dressed for riding in dark blue uniforms and black leather trousers, swords and daggers fastened to their sides. They looked grim and not a little dangerous.

Yes, **my** guards.

Almost the first thing Ada had done after the ink of our signatures had dried on the adoption papers was to appoint two personal guards for me. The times of me riding off on my own anywhere were over for good.

My guards are two men who rode to war with Prince Imrahil. One of his best and most reliable men, he told me. Nevertheless I am not to ride far from the castle and the town. You never know when the corsairs will attack. Only in November will the sea get too rough for the corsairs to try for the coasts of Gondor. Therefore we have to be careful on any outings.

The first guard is a young man called Helmichis. He is actually of Rohirric descent. His mother was Rohirrim, his father a fisher from the village of Dol Amroth. I have no idea how a fisher from Dol Amroth could ever meet and fall in love with a woman from Rohan. But Helmichis is a pretty burly proof that it actually happened – one way or the other. He is nineteen, blond, powerfully built, with dark brown eyes and an easy smile.

The other guard is Rhawion. He around fifty, with steel grey hair and eyes, tough as old leather and taciturn like any stone. He hails from Dol Amroth, born and bred, and I have the notion that his duty is not only to watch over me, but to train Helmichis.

Dol Amroth is built on two promontories off the peninsula of Dol Amroth and Cobas. The castle and its gardens form a pentagon, with the smallest side pointing to the south-east and the larger promontory where the town is situated on. The town of Dol Amroth is more or less octagonal, with a square market place at its center. The main street runs fairly straight from the drawing bridge of the castle to the city's gates. When you enter the town you find yourself in a courtyard that can be separated from the rest of the town by a second gate. To the left of this courtyard are the stables, to the right the barracks of the guards, although the expression "stables" and "barracks" perhaps give the wrong idea. Both are tall grey buildings which form a large "U" with the second gate placed between them. But this second gate is open all the time, unless the corsairs attack.

I don't know if they did it on purpose, but my guards both chose black geldings for riding today, creating a beautiful contrast to my splendid white Mithril. With the guards in their matching dark blue uniforms, riding just a little behind me on either side, I must have looked like a real noble lady of Gondor for once. Apart from the fact, of course, that I wore a Rohirric outfit of trousers and tunic because I don't know how to ride side-saddle.

We rode across the drawing bridge that connects the town of Dol Amroth with the peninsula of Cobas and turned away from the road to Edhellond. We took a lane leading off to the west, running along the edge of the cliffs just opposite of the battlements of the town and continued on this narrow road for barely a mile.

"It's just over there, my lady," Helmichis called out to me and pointed to a small meadow surrounded by low walls at the western edge of the cliffs only a few yards away.

"Thank you, Helmichis," I said politely. I felt more than a little self-conscious with the two guards following me like that. But there was nothing I could do about it. And Míri had announced that we needed to talk about me acquiring some servants of my own, to take with me to Edoras. Would I ever get used to having servants and guards around me all the time? To never to being really alone anymore, to having virtually no privacy?

We rode up to the low walls of the cemetery. They were built from the reddish stones of the cliffs, a dry stone wall. The stones had been carefully set one upon the other without using mortar; the cracks between the stones had been filled with pebbles. I reined in Mimi and dismounted. My heart thumped heavily in my chest. I felt strange and nervous about visiting the grave of my dead sister.

"We will wait here for you, my lady," Rhawion told me. "The grave you are looking for is over at the front of the cemetery, with all the rest of the family."

"Thank you," I said hoarsely.

There was no gate, only an opening in the wall.

Somewhat reluctantly I entered the graveyard. The graveyard reminded me at once of old English graveyards. It was a square piece of fenced in meadow. There were no angels or marble monstrosities here, only small markers made of that soft red, yellow and orange rock that comes from the cliffs of Dol Amroth.

Some of the markers were so old that the runes carved into the stone had faded into invisibility, others had sunken into the ground and had shifted to lean at odd angles, ready to fall down completely any moment.

I walked to the end of the graveyard. Here the gravestones were tall and intricately carved with runes and ornate designs. But apart from that there was no indication that these were the graves of the lords of Dol Amroth.

I walked slowly along the stones, carefully, painstakingly deciphering the tengwar runes.

Finally I found my sister.

It was the smallest marker, at the far right hand corner of the row. It was a reddish stone with a cream colored swath trailing across it from the upper right corner to the lower left edge of the stone. The runes were still clear and easy to read. I recognized my name. I could not really read the other words, but I assumed that it was the date of her birth and death.

"Lothíriel 2992 – 2993"

I stood very still and looked down at the stone. I did not know what to feel. There she was, my sister in name, and now by adoption. Once again I wondered if I had usurped her life. Would she have lived, had I not been born? Would she have lived, if my mother had given me another name? Or if I had not abandoned my studies that day in August 2004?

I sighed, and told myself firmly to abandon this futile brooding.

I knelt down in front of the stone and laid the flowers down in front of the stone.

Lothíriël is actually a Sindarin word. It means "a maiden crowned with blossoms".

_I have brought you some flowers from your mother's garden,_ I thought to my sister. _I'm your new sister. Your parents have adopted me. I hope you don't mind. Your parents are simply wonderful, kind and courageous. They miss you still._

I looked at the flowers and the small stone. The sea beyond the low wall and the cliffs was rough today, grey and green waves rolled heavily towards the shores, crested in white.

I wondered how my sister had looked. A sweet little toddler like Solas. Had she had her mother's dark hair or had she taken after her father's almost white blond hair color?

_I wish I could have met you,_ I said silently in my mind. _Wherever you are, I hope you are happy._

"May all the Valar and Eru hold you and protect you in eternity." I whispered finally.

I took a deep breath. The air was still mild and warm and tasted slightly salty from the nearby ocean. It was very silent out here at the edge of the cliffs. There was only the sound of the wind and the waves, and the hooves of the horses as they moved along the path to graze a little while they were waiting for us to mount again. Now and again the cry of a seabird drifted down to me.

In German the word for graveyard is "Friedhof", "yard of peace".

This graveyard was peaceful.

I exhaled softly and felt the tension drain from my body all at once. The apprehension I had been feeling was suddenly lifted from my heart. I felt calm and at peace.

I smiled down at my sister's grave and found that I could turn and go on.

* * *

****

**Diary: 15th of October, or rather Narquelië, 3019**

Now we are more than two weeks back at Dol Amroth. Time simply flies by. Míri keeps me busy. She has decided that we don't have to wait for the twins to continue my education.

The library of Dol Amroth is filled with thousands of books about the history and peoples of Arda. But for the time being I am wrestling simply with learning how to read and how to write. There are no printing presses in Middle Earth. It's a wonder that there are any books at all… especially since there are no monasteries to concentrate on the task of gathering and preserving knowledge as was the case on earth. From what I understand in Middle Earth it was mainly the work of the elves to systematically conserve what knowledge there is of history and medicine and everything else. What is kept at the archives of the various keeps and castles is mainly up to the fancies of the ruling lord at any given time.

There are also no universities and public libraries.

When the elves leave for good, Middle Earth will be in deep shit. Perhaps I can introduce something like that in Rohan. Though I am not sure how much Eomer cares for arts and sciences.

Oh, well, I guess I will have time to worry about all this for years to come.

At the moment I'd be happy if I could remember those bloody runes. How am I supposed to learn anything about the history of Gondor and Rohan or to read those bloody ledgers if I can't spell my own name?

* * *

As October waned, the time came to prepare the castle and the town for the visit of the King and Queen.

King Elessar and Queen Arwen would pass through Dol Amroth at the beginning of November, Hísimë, on the royal progress. They had left Minas Tirith not long after us, traveling to Pinnath Galen and Anfalas. Although in name Dunland, the Enedwaith and the Drúwaith Iaur belong to the reunited kingdom of Gondor and Arnor as well, there was not much use in going there. No one really lives there. Of course those lands are not completely deserted, but the few isolated villages that might be left there are not even on the maps anymore. For the most part those parts are empty, desolate lands, peopled by wild tribes, and bands of vagabonds and robbers.

Therefore the royal progress concentrated on the homelands of Gondor.

After visiting Rohan, Anorien and Ithilien, it was the turn of the south-western provinces to welcome the new king and queen. On their way back to Minas Tirith, Aragorn and Arwen would come to Dol Amroth. From Dol Amroth they would continue along the coast towards Linhir and then turn north again to Minas Tirith. At the beginning of December they would be back home, hoping for a boring and peaceful winter.

For the time being their plans had turned Dol Amroth – castle, town and harbor – into a veritable ant heap. Provisions for several days of feasting were gathered. Hundreds of garlands of colorful leaves and flowers were wound by the girls of Dol Amroth to decorate the castle and the town of Dol Amroth. The guards of Dol Amroth spent hours polishing their mail. Enho, the majordomo of Dol Amroth, and Marai, the cook, were in turn close to heart attacks and nervous breakdowns preparing the King's suite of Dol Amroth for the first royal visit since Eärnur's days and planning the courses for the celebratory dinner.

Ada – Prince Imrahil – had nothing much to do with the preparations. Lucky man. The only thing he had to do was ride out to meet the King and Queen and escort them to Dol Amroth. Míri was responsible for everything else.

But strangely Míri was the only one who remained reasonably calm amid all this frenzy and agitation.

I regretted that in a way, because she remembered not only every detail about the organization of the royal visit, but about my studies as well. She kept me hard at work, making me transcribe a book about the history of Gondor. First I had to simply copy down the runes. Then I had to translate them. I probably should no expect any real progress in the time of two or three weeks, but I was more than a little discouraged by my difficulties with the runes.

I had been looking forward to meeting Elladan and Elrohir again. Now I was not so sure.

Making a fool of myself in front of the firstborn is not exactly my favorite pastime.

* * *

Elladan and Elrohir arrived unexpectedly early, on the 27th of October.

And apart from the Prince everyone was surprised by the manner of their arrival, too. I had expected them to come riding towards Dol Amroth on the road from Edhellond, the coat of their proud elvish horses gleaming whitely in the sun.

Instead they came by the sea. They sailed into the harbor of Dol Amroth with a small white sailing ship shaped like a swan. It was a beautiful ship. Absolutely extraordinary. Somehow elves always end up with something white and gleaming to transport them. I think they do that on purpose.

The elvish ship had been sighted when it was still miles away from the harbor. Prince Imrahil had been alerted instantly and prepared to go down to the harbor to greet the noble visitors at once. He asked Míri and me to accompany him. He did not have to ask his sons.

Mel and Númendil were positively jumping on the spot with impatience as they waited for Míri and Ada to get ready to walk down to the harbor to meet the elves.

Finally we were ready to go. This time even the normally quiet and composed Númendil found it difficult to stay at his father's side and as Imrahil walked slowly through the streets of Dol Amroth, cordially greeting the men and women we met on our way.

The fishing village and the harbor of Dol Amroth lie at the foot of the cliffs, in the bay of Cobas. A long, winding path branches off the road to Edhellond, leading off to the left in front of the gates of the city and then down to the sea, descending in narrow serpentines for almost five hundred feet.

At long last we reached the harbor, just in time to watch the splendid white ship closing in to the harbor. With a low thump the ship collided with the bumpers at the quay. Elladan and Elrohir threw slender coils of elvish rope across to the waiting fishermen, who quickly secured the ship to the moorings.

The twins swiftly jumped down to the quay, strode towards the Prince of Dol Amroth and embraced him.

"It's good to get off this horrible nutshell," Elrohir said shuddering.

Imrahil smiled faintly. "I bet Lord Círdan would not be at all pleased if he knew how you refer to his masterpiece."

"I don't care," replied Elladan, who looked just as pale and exhausted as his twin. "I hate sailing. It's good to have firm ground below my feet once more."

Then the elves turned towards us. They bowed to Míri and kissed her hand decorously. To my envy she greeted them in perfect Sindarin.

Then the twins turned to me and embraced me heartily, which made me blush. Even if your heart is given elsewhere, being embraced by elves is an extraordinary sensation.

"How are your studies?" Elrohir asked.

I raised my eyebrows at him and rolled my eyes. "They would be better if your ancestors had not invented so bloody difficult runes."

Elrohir grinned at me mischievously. "They did that just to annoy you, I'm sure."

"Did you practice with your sword at all?" Elladan wanted to know, winking at me.

I blushed even more hotly and shook my head. There had simply been no time left for that between the blasted runes and the preparations for our royal visitors.

I was gratified when Míri came to my aid. "Please, my lords, there will be enough time for this. May I introduce you to my sons? This is Númendil and this is Meluir."

She motioned her sons to step forward and greet the two elves.

The boys, who had been watching us breathlessly, their eyes wide, their mouths open – no, not really, but they **did** look absolutely awestruck at Elrond's sons.

I have to admit that the twins were indeed magnificent in appearance, even if they were a little worse for the wear from the sea voyage. Their long dark hair had been braided down their backs to keep it out of the way. Their eyes were of the famous Noldorin silver, their features clear and noble, filled with the light of the grace of the Eldar. They were tall and commanding, even dressed in the simple grey garments they had worn on the ship, and at their sides hung their famous twin swords, whose names are never uttered. But as they bent down to the boys, they smiled as easily and openly as any human, and they greeted the boys in such friendly manner that put even Númendil at ease in their company.

"Will it be alright to leave the ship moored here for the time being?" Elladan asked Imrahil.

The Prince nodded. "Of course. There won't be any time to get it out off the water until the king has left anyway. But I will make sure that it is high and dry come winter, as I have promised your father."

"That reminds me," Elrohir put in. "Could you send a messenger to Imladris? We promised Adar to send word of our – and the ship's – safe arrival."

"Of course," Imrahil replied. "A messenger can be sent at once. But now, please, accompany us to the castle and share a glass of wine with us, to welcome you. It is an honor and a pleasure to have you here."

"Gladly, sire," Elrohir answered, hoisting Mel up into his arms.

"Could you perhaps write and seal that message?" Elladan asked in mock plaintiveness. "Ada will believe you more easily than us that we really sailed this dratted ship to safety without getting into trouble."

Imrahil chuckled softly. "I guess your father is used to trouble where the two of you are concerned, isn't he?"

Elladan grinned and turned to Númendil. "I won't venture any comment to that remark. I bet your Ada does not even know how to spell the word 'trouble' with such fabulous sons." He held out his hand to the youngster. Númendil, his eyes glowing with delight, took it at once.

"And such a very pretty daughter, one might add," Elrohir commented and smiled at me.

I had no idea how to react to that compliment, so I settled for a silent smile.

As I followed Imrahil, Míri, the twins and the boys back up the cliffs, I mused that I could easily imagine Elladan and Elrohir as troublemakers-in-chief at Imladris, wreaking havoc in the palaces and generally turning the place upside down. But then I had to grin as another thought occurred to me. One should never underestimate Arwen. Still waters are deep, as the saying goes.

And what was that business about this white sailing ship?

Was that the task they had been sent here to accomplish in the first place?

And if so, why?

Oh, well… that was none of my business. But I must confess that I was curious. Perhaps I would be brave enough to ask them sometime.

* * *

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**Soccer-Bitch, TPfann, Christina, Morwen, Mija, Aelyaniara, ElvenScript:** Thank you!

**RipperAngel:** Nicht mehr lange, fürchte ich, ich hab jetzt einen Abgabetermin für meine Abschlußarbeit.

**And a CHALLENGE:** I would like to know how Helmichis' Dad – the fisher from Dol Amroth – met his Rohirrim wife. Would you care to tell me?

Note: they are not in any way related to any noble lords and ladies of either Gondor or Rohan. Just simple folk. Helmichis is 19 in 3019.

Please let me know if you take on the challenge!


	71. Visitors

**71. Visitors**

Three days later a messenger came to Dol Amroth with news from the King and his entourage.

Ada met the messenger in the entrance hall. I was coming down from another morning of trouble with the tengwar runes and some rather obscure Sindarin texts, as the messenger finished.

"…so they will be here within three days, some two hundred riders and three carriages, and about fifty servants and such, all told, my lord."

Imrahil heaved a sigh. "And how does the king think we will be able to feed that lot? We have been at war, too."

"At least we have sufficient quarters to accommodate them comfortably," Míri put in, calm as ever. More than every second fighter from the fiefdom of Dol Amroth had not returned from the war of the rings.

"If they behave in a civilized manner towards our girls and widows," Imrahil replied crossly. Then he held up his hand to stop her reprimand. "I know, I know. I should be glad it is only such a small entourage. King Eärnur used to travel with no less than eight hundred riders and a hundred servants. And King Elessar will see to it that they treat our womenfolk politely. It's only that I could have done with a little respite."

"How do you plan to greet the King and Queen?" Míri asked.

Imrahil tugged at the bow that held his long blond hair at the nape of his neck. "Well, we should ride towards them with a company of uniformed riders, or have a hundred boys with wreaths of laurel in their hair to line the road or something like that. Or that's what Gawin and Falanyon tell me. They are obsessed with the splendor of the days of the kings as they are described in our annals. _I think_ it would be quite appropriate and fitting if I rode out to greet the King and Queen with my company of guards – fifty in number – dressed in their best uniforms. I would have it that you, Lothíriel, the boys and the Lords Elladan and Elrohir as well as the masters Samno and Gwaeren with their ladies accompany me. As I have not managed to dissuade my herald of his notions of lining up the boys of Dol Amroth, Falanyon can wait for us at the gates with his laurel-wreathed boys. The honor of presenting the cup of welcome will fall to Enho, of course. I suggest you give him a soothing herbal draught in time."

"Melethril-nîn, don't worry so much," Míri soothed her husband.

And here I had thought that Ada was completely unmoved by the agitation that had gripped the inhabitants of Dol Amroth during the last days. Perhaps he'd been only better at hiding his real feelings than the others.

"Thank you, Amdirion," Imrahil told the fair haired page that had brought the message to Dol Amroth. "Gawin will show you to your room and take you to the kitchen for something to eat."

Gawin and Amdirion bowed to Imrahil and left the entrance hall for the kitchen and servants' wing.

Imrahil raised his eyebrows and massaged the bridge of his nose with stiff fingers. He looked a little tired and more than a little annoyed. When he noticed me, however, he smiled.

"Well, Lothíriel. How wonderful to see someone who does not go on about the royal progress. How are your studies?"

I managed to suppress a groan. "To be honest, Ada, I would prefer talking about the royal visit to talking about my studies of the elvish runes. I manage to read and write my name, which is more than I could do easily last week. But I am afraid I am a slow and clumsy pupil. Mel and Númendil are both much quicker."

Imrahil smiled proudly at the mentioning of his sons. But his gaze was warm and kind, when he replied, "That is not what the sons of Elrond have told me. They tell me you are smart and work very hard. It simply takes more time to learn such things when you are older."

"Thank you, Ada. That means a lot to me." I said gratefully. And it did. A new brain would have been better, but Imrahil's comforting words lifted my spirits considerably.

* * *

The third of November found me on Mithril's back dressed in the silver trousers and tunic I had worn for Arwen's wedding. Imrahil, his sons and the guards were resplendent in the dark blue uniforms of Dol Amroth, with the tunics etched in silver, mail and weapons gleaming with a silver sparkle that matched the starlight. Míri wore blue, too, a silvery blue gown of heavy satin. The twins were back in their favored grey silk.

The mayor of the town of Dol Amroth wore black trousers and a blue waistcoat above a light blue vest and white shirt, a golden pocket watch fastened to the vest pocket by a golden chain. The mayor of the fishing village of Dol Amroth was clad in grays and more simple fabrics, as befit his lower rank, but he wore a dark blue coat lined in silver that showed his allegiance to Dol Amroth.

As we rode out of the gates of Dol Amroth fifty boys between the ages of five and ten filed out of the gates behind us. They were grouped according to their sizes with the smallest walking at the front, carrying a tray with bread and salt. The boys were clothed in blue and Falanyon had actually managed for them to wear wreaths of laurel in their hair. A group of harpers and other musicians with golden trumpets and horns were waiting up on the sentry walk of the town's walls, ready to add their music to the welcome.

It felt strange to me to greet someone I knew as a friend with such pomp and circumstance. But even I realized the political implications of the visit and the reception. This was the first official visit of the King to Dol Amroth. Imrahil had to put on a show that reflected the political power and the affluence of the third family of Gondor. The way he greeted the King and Queen, the way he received them and accommodated them during their visit was a statement about his own status in the realm. An expensive, trying, but necessary statement.

Only the sons of Elrond were aloof and removed from the political considerations of Gondor and the Gondorian nobles. They concerned only with the mysterious task that had led them to Dol Amroth and seeing their sister again.

I have to admit that I envied them a little bit for their detached view of the proceedings. At times I felt pretty much overwhelmed by the political undertones that accompanied every movement of the King and Queen and the reactions of their nobles. When I had read about politics in the Middle Ages back at school, I had always thought that politics way back then had been fairly simple and straightforward. Well, Middle Earth probably did not mirror the Middle Ages back on earth. Perhaps it did not even come close. Anyway, there was nothing simple about Gondorian and Rohirric politics in the year 3019 of the third age of Middle Earth. Nor about those damn runes…

We did not have to ride far to meet Aragorn and Arwen. They were traveling along the cliffs, coming from Edhellond. It was a cold, windy day. November is a grey month even in the south-west of Gondor. At least it was not raining.

Aragorn and Arwen were dressed simply, for traveling as comfortable as possible, in thick fabrics of a good quality, but nothing fancy.

Their royalty was evident in their bearing, however.

Aragorn had changed since I had seen him last. He was every inch the king of Gondor now, proud and regal. He did not need a crown for everyone to know that he was the king. One look at his sword and into his face was sufficient to quell any doubt. He radiated with a stern power that seemed to come from another time and dimension. Arwen had softened. She looked even more human than when we had parted. Her long dark hair was braided artistically and covered by a deep blue veil. Her expression was solemn, but her eyes were full of warm intelligence. Lord Húrin and Elphir – in his capacity as captain of the royal guard – rode with them, and the mayor of the free city of Edhellond, Master Daerion. It was the duty of the lord of the castle or the mayor of the town visited on the royal progress to escort the king to his next destination.

Imrahil halted his horse before the king and lifted his hands in a gesture of welcome. "Your royal highness, King Elessar Telcontar, I and mine would humbly beg your indulgence and invite you to my modest abode."

Aragorn inclined his head. "We are honored by such a cordial invitation, my lord Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. It is a joy to us to visit your beautiful town and castle."

Of course the invitation and the acceptance of the invitation were merely ceremonial. The royal progress and its stages had been assiduously planned long before the King had taken to the road. Nevertheless custom dictated that Imrahil had to act as if he had met the king by chance and was now very generous to invite him to his town and castle.

After the invitation had been made and accepted, the mayor of Edhellond and his company of guards in white uniforms took their leave. The safety of the King and his entourage were now up to Prince Imrahil.

* * *

On our way back to Dol Amroth I rode with Arwen and her brothers.

"I am so glad to see you, Lothíriel," Arwen said. There was a darkness to her eyes that suggested she had more to tell me when there were not as many people around.

"How do you fare, muínthel-nîn?" Elrohir asked, smiling at the queen.

"Very well, muíndor-nîn. Very well," she answered and as her gaze fell on the king who was riding at the front of the train with Imrahil and Míri, her face filled with a bright light of deep happiness. But under her eyes were deep smudges of fatigue. "But I do admit I will be happier still, when we are finally back in Minas Tirith. This journey is exhausting."

"See, tithen, you would not have kept up with the Dúnedain after all," Elladan gently teased his sister.

Arwen glared at her brother. "Dúnedain do not require the careful attention Gondorian lords and ladies do. Trust me, I would have kept up. However, I am most certain that you would have ruined the purpose of this journey. You have no subtlety." But then she smiled at her brothers. "Nevertheless, I am happy to meet you here. I need a brief respite from the dealings with those…" She trailed off and bit on her lip.

Those mortals?

I guess it takes time and patience to get used to humans. I grinned at my friend. "If your brothers allow me a brief respite from my toil and trouble with those tengwar runes of yours, I will make sure that you get some, too." I offered.

"Oh, yes, please," Arwen replied, relief evident in her voice.

Her brothers raised identical slanted eyebrows at me, but from their easy grins I rather deduced that I had a holiday coming my way. Oh, what bliss!

* * *

When we reached the gates of Dol Amroth, the musicians struck up a lilting tune, a hymn of welcome and blessing a good guest.

Aragorn and Arwen dismounted. We followed suit.

Enho approached with golden goblets of wine to welcome the high guests, followed by the two small boys with the bread and salt.

After a purely symbolic sip of wine and the ceremonial breaking of bred with the Lord of Dol Amroth, Imrahil escorted the King and Queen and the highest lords of their entourage to the castle. The large number of riders, guards and servants would be accommodated in the town and the servants' wings. Only really important personages got to stay in the castle.

The streets of Dol Amroth were lined by every man, woman and child that lived there or in one of the near villages, turned out in their best holiday finery. Garlands were strung across the streets and flowers were thrown down on us from the windows and roofs of the city. The musicians followed us, playing as they went. Noisy cheers went up as the King and Queen passed by, but many also shouted Imrahil's and Míri's name. Four tall guards in the livery of Dol Amroth carried a blue and silver canopy that was intricately with tiny swans and ships, holding it above the heads of the King and Queen as an additional sign of honor.

Finally we reached the castle.

Imrahil escorted the King and Queen into the great hall and led them to ornate thrones which had been made for the occasion.

Standing in front of the thrones, Imrahil raised his arms in a gesture of welcome. As the Lord of Dol Amroth it fell to him to speak the traditional blessing of welcome in the name of the Valar and Eru.

The blessing ended the ceremony of welcoming the King and Queen. Servants hurried away leading the various dignitaries to their rooms. Míri and I personally escorted the King and Queen to their rooms. The royal apartment was on the first floor of the castle, taking up the entire width of the western side of the building.

Hot baths were already waiting for them. Assuring them that they had only to call and we would do everything to make them comfortable, we left them to clean off the dust of the day's travels and change for the celebratory dinner of the evening.

* * *

I would never have believed it if someone had actually told me that I would find dinner and dancing with the King and Queen trying and almost boring one day. But without Eomer the glamour and splendor of the event was not as grand as it could have been.

Arwen was still tired from traveling and did not talk much. Aragorn was deep in talk with Imrahil, Elrond's sons and several other high lords of Gondor. So I found myself surrounded by a gaggle of noble ladies who did not measure up to the expectations Míri, Eowyn and Arwen had given rise to as far as I was concerned. They twittered and simpered and babbled in high girlish voices fit to make my head explode. I gave Arwen a wan smile. Perhaps she was not only tired from the traveling.

I only hope that the noble ladies at Edoras won't turn out to be like that.

Probably they are not all that bad, I tried to tell myself. You simply have to get to know them. And you cannot expect everyone to be a Míri or Eowyn or Arwen.

But I sure would like. On the other hand… they put up with **me**, too…

* * *

Nevertheless I was glad when the evening was over and I was back in my room. Even though the last weeks had been busy, there had been more peaceful moments than during all of the last twelve months. I had come to cherish those short moments I had to myself. There was still a lot to adjust to for me, now that the pace of events had slowed down somewhat.

I knelt down on the window seat and looked out across the sea. I love the sea. And I love the luxury of the clear glass window in my room. To be able to look out across the sea even on cold and windy days is paradise. The sea of night was dark. The sea was heavy, but as the clouds were thick and there was no moon the white crests did not show. For a while I listened to the comforting roll and rush of the waves down below at the rocky foundations of the cliffs.

I had been looking forward to meeting Arwen again. But now there seemed to be little room for taking up where we had left off, riding races and giggling about our men. Real life and all its problems were reaching out towards us unrelentingly.

Perhaps there would be an opportunity for a ride tomorrow.

* * *

"Aragorn, please," Arwen begged. "If my brothers accompany us, we will be as safe as we can possibly be! And I need to get away from this crowd." She looked at her husband pleadingly. Aragorn obviously wanted her at his side today, but he saw that she was at the end of her nerves. It had probably not occurred to him just how difficult the transition from a sheltered elvish life to the duties and responsibilities of a mortal queen would be for Arwen. Her two thousand seven hundred and whatever years were of little help to her now.

Aragorn sighed. "Very well. I know that your brothers will keep you safe."

Arwen closed her eyes in relief.

Imrahil raised his eyebrows slightly, and then quickly turned to me. "You take your own guards, iëll-nîn. And stay on the road."

"Of course, Ada," I answered, feeling once again a burst of happiness and gratitude at the knowledge of belonging to these wonderful people.

We quickly made for the stables and were out of the town, riding along the cliffs within an hour. It was another grey day, but again there was no rain, so it was quite enjoyable.

"I don't like the sea, Lothíriel, couldn't we turn inland?" Arwen asked taking a shuddering look at the wide grey expanse of the ocean.

"Sure," I said. "But this is a rather small peninsula. You can't really get away from the sea here."

Arwen frowned. "Just let us get away from the cliffs and the open view of the waves, please."

We turned to the hills at the center of Cobas peninsula. The hills, grown with heather and gorse and a few blue, gnarled pines seemed to be more to her liking. It was a fierce, rocky landscape that looked gloomy under the dark November sky. Our guards did not like us to ride up into the hills. There too many hiding places between the boulders and the underbrush. Too much shelter for anyone who was up to no good. But Arwen dismissed their misgivings. I was with her on that. We were far away from the mountains of the east and any remaining orc gangs. It was November and the seas were heavy. There was nothing to fear from the corsairs for the time being. There was nothing to be afraid of only a few miles away from Dol Amroth. We rode in a gallop up to the summit of a hill, Arwen shouting for me to hurry up, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with the joy at the race, when suddenly Elrohir reined in his horse.

"Wait!" He called out to us in a sharp voice. He cocked his head as if he was listening to something. Narrowing his eyes he turned to his brother. "Elladan?"

"Yes," hissed his brother.

Suddenly Elladan nudged his horse forward, bringing him between me and the hills.

Then it happened.

There was a whirring sound.

A thump.

A groan.

At first I did not realize what had happened at all. I stared at Elladan, my mind refusing to register what had happened. Elladan collapsed against his saddle, a black arrow protruding from his right shoulder.

I screamed. My guards were at my side in a blink, their swords drawn. Arwen had her own blade out; I fumbled for Tínu and clumsily unsheathed my slender elvish blade.

I looked around wildly, waiting for screaming black figures racing down to us from the hills.

But nothing further happened.

"Can you get them?" Elladan asked his brother, suppressing a moan, as he pressing his hand to the wound. Blood was flowing profusely down his front.

Elrohir's sharp elvish eyes were trained to a rocky ledge at the top of the nearest hill.

"No," he finally said and sheathed his sword in a fluid movement. "Let's get away from here. Do you think the arrow's poisoned?"

I stared at the elf, the shock of what just had happened only now sinking into my stomach as an icy lump. My heart thumped painfully. The sword was shaking in my hand.

Elladan moaned. "'Tis I think." Then he gave me a grimace of a smile. "But poison aimed to kill a human lady won't send me to Mandos, never you worry."

Then he fainted.

I gulped, nausea rising from my stomach. "Who was the arrow aimed at?" I asked, wrestling my sword back into its sheath.

Rhawion and Helmichis never turned their gaze to me, but kept their eyes to the hills, ready to defend Arwen and me against any attack. But Rhawion, a guard and officer of many years of experience, answered my question in a low, decided voice. "It was aimed at you, my lady. I suggest we get away from here as fast as we can."

* * *

**A/N:** Oops...where did that come from?


	72. Shock

**72. Shock**

I never knew how we made it back to Dol Amroth and the castle. But I know we must have, because suddenly I found myself sitting in an easy chair in the great hall, my shaking hands wrapped around a cup of hot tea. I was staring at Imrahil and Míri.

"How is Elladan?" I heard my voice from far away, and I was wondering how I came to be here.

When someone entered the hall, I jumped, spilling the hot tea all over me.

It was the Lady Elaine of Tarnost. I had not even known that she had come to Dol Amroth with the royal progress.

"Lord Elladan will be fine. The poison would have killed any human being, but it is not potent enough to depose of a firstborn. I have removed the arrow and stitched the wound. In two or three weeks Lord Elladan should be fine."

"Eru be praised," Míri said relieved. "Would you take a look at Lothíriel, please? I think it's only the shock."

Elaine sat down next to me. I turned my head very slowly. It was an effort to turn my head.

Elaine took the cup from my hands and put it on the table. She felt my hands, my pulse, and then she touched her cool, slender fingers to my forehead.

"Lothíriel, do you know what day it is?"

"Yes, of course, it's the fourth of November 3019." My voice was a little breathless. Somehow I could not concentrate as I should, with someone out there intent on murder.

"Can you tell me what happened today?" Elaine asked, her voice calm and soothing. "You don't have to, but it would be better."

I nodded slowly. "We went for a ride. Arwen did not like to ride along the cliffs. We turned to the hills. The guards, and Elladan and Elrohir did not like the hills. But I thought what could happen here. There are no orcs near. It's too late in the year for corsairs. I think Elrohir saw something. Then Elladan was suddenly in front of me and then there was this hissing sound, and then he collapsed with a black arrow sticking out of his shoulder. I thought it must be orcs. I was waiting for them to come running down from the hills. But nothing happened. And then Rhawion said it was me the arrow was aimed at."

I turned my head and looked at Míri and Imrahil. Suddenly my mind was clearer. I still felt dazed, but I remembered again what had happened, and how we had raced back to Dol Amroth, how we had ridden right up to the castle, how they had carried Elladan up the stairs, his head lolling, his clothes drenched in blood. The black arrow standing out against the red in stark relief. And the smell of the blood, faintly metallic, but already like raw meat, because there had been such a lot of blood.

I ran from the hall. I'd never make it to the privies. I hurried out into the inner courtyard. I vomited on a bed of flowers. Then I sank down on the cold stones of the yard.

Someone had tried to kill me.

Someone had almost killed Elladan, because they wanted to kill me.

Why should anyone want to kill me?

Who should want to kill me?

Suddenly I felt myself drawn up by strong arms. I was surprised to find myself facing the Lady Elaine. She supported me back into the entrance hall and made me sit down on a high backed chair. "Can I leave you for a moment?"

I nodded.

"I will watch her," Míri promised, sitting down next to me. "Lothíriel, please, calm down. Elladan will recover. You are safe here. Nothing will happen to you here."

I stared at her, trying to make sense of her words. Why did this get to me so much?

"Why do I feel so awful?" I asked. I did not remember having felt so bad even…

"That's only the shock, the surprise," Elaine said and held out a cup filled with a dark steaming liquid to me. "You felt safe, riding with the Lords Elladan and Elrohir and your guards, so close to Dol Amroth, with no enemy to expect nearby. What you are feeling is perfectly normal. A little shock, that's all. Now, please drink this tea. It will be bitter, but I want you to drink all of it. It will make you sleepy and relaxed. After a good night's sleep you will be right as rain."

I accepted the cup and drained it in one long swallow. It was so bitter that it made me gag again. But I drank it all and willed it to stay down.

"I'll take you to your room," Míri said and held out her arm to me. I allowed her to lead me up to my room. I kept hearing the hissing sound of the arrow. It echoed and echoed in my ears. Míri put me to bed as if I was a small child. When she had tugged me in, she squeezed my hand softly. "Don't worry about a thing, Lothíriel. You are safe here. Now sleep."

I wanted to laugh.

_Don't worry about a thing!_

Someone is out there and wants to kill me. Why should I worry?

But I was too tired to reply. My eyelids were drooping heavily. I could only mumble and affirmative and let my head sink down on my pillow.

* * *

When I woke in the morning, my head was clear again, but the memory of the day before was strangely distant and unreal.

Someone had tried to kill me.

_Someone had tried to kill me._

Why in hell would anyone want to kill me?

I went down to the dining room. I had dressed in my faded jeans, a blue silk shirt and a black vest. I knew that it was not really appropriate. But I needed the comfort of the faded blue denim. The pants had made it with me from Erlangen to Edoras; they reminded me of the things I had made through. That gave me some measure of comfort and courage.

Míri and Elaine were in the dining room. I looked at them, as they sat at the head of the table, black hair, and grey eyes. They looked like sisters, only Elaine had now impish widow's peak and a more solemn expression in her clear grey eyes. It was strange how much they looked alike, as the Lady Elaine was actually Imrahil's niece. She was the oldest daughter of his older sister, who had married a dark Númenorean. It had taken me some time to understand the significance of being a white or a dark Númenorean. As it is the phenomenon is confined to the area of Belfalas. At the shores of the Bay of Belfalas some Sindarin elves intermarried with the faithful who had fled from the drowning of Númenor. Their descendants are of light hair and eyes, the white Númenoreans. The Númenoreans families who married only amongst themselves or with lesser men retained their dark hair and grey eyes, the dark Númenoreans. It's a bit of a dispute which line is the nobler. People are silly. But that's why Imrahil is blond and Míri and Elaine are black-haired. Elaine's parents, the Lord Cristion and the Lady Iûlieth live in Linhir, but their daughter had chosen to live where she had been born, pledging her calling to her brother and his fiefdom.

I entered the room and inclined my head politely to the women. "Good morning, Míri, Lady Elaine."

Elaine gave me a small smile. "I thought you should be down any moment. How do you feel?"

I slid down on a chair round the corner from the ladies. "I'm fine. Thank you. I feel pretty embarrassed that I was so… out of it yesterday."

"Don't worry about that. It was only a little shock, perfectly normal." Elaine reassured me.

Míri nodded. "I was not in a good shape last night either, Lothy. All of us thought that we are safe at the moment. And I have not your memories of black arrows."

The thought of arrows made me shiver. The memories of Boromir falling to the ground and Elladan collapsing mingled in cold horror.

"She should eat now, before we discuss anything else. And I think your husband wants this discussion to take place in his library, with the king and queen present." Elaine interrupted.

"You are right, Ely." Míri picked up a small brass bell. A small, dark haired maid appeared, Asa, if I remembered her name correctly.

"Would you please prepare some breakfast for Lothíriel, Asa? And I think another pot of tea for us, what do you think, Elaine?" The healer nodded.

Míri smiled at the maid. "And another pot of tea, please."

"Very well, my lady." The girl curtsied prettily and noiselessly left the dining room.

"A cup of tea, while we wait, Lothy?" Míri asked.

I nodded mutely, holding my cup out to her. I would have preferred tírithel, but the strong green tea Míri liked was not bad either.

Suddenly a thought occurred to me. "Is there a way… should Eomer be told about what happened?"

"The messenger left yesterday evening. The message will be carried in relay. It should reach Edoras in three days." Míri said calmly.

I bit down on my lip. If the message was carried by relay riders, what had happened was really serious. Relaying is the quickest way to pass a message with horses. I think I read somewhere that the Mongols of Dhingis Khan covered 375 km, almost 235 miles, in one day with relay riders. The speed is determined by the distance between the relay stations and the condition of the ground. If the ground is level and the relay stations are close enough together for the horses to race in full gallop, such distances are possible. The two hundred miles between Minas Tirith and the border of Rohan is not covered by horse but by the signal beacons on the peaks of the foothills of the Ered Nimrais. Therefore a message can get from Dol Amroth to Edoras in three days.

Of course, these kinds of messages are fairly short and simple, and sent in come obscure code. Passing a message on with signal beacons is tricky.

Asa came back with a huge tray filled with plates and bowls of food.

Looking at the eggs, the fresh bread, cheese and cold meat I promptly lost my appetite. When I am busy brooding and worrying I can't eat. A stern look from Míri made me reconsider.

I took a piece of bread, a piece of cheese and a cooked egg. You can't argue with Míri. She's always right.

* * *

After breakfast we went to the library.

Imrahil was seated in front of the fire place with Aragorn and Elrohir. Húrin of the Keyes was standing with Arwen at the window. They were talking in low voices completely oblivious of the beautiful view of Dol Amroth's flower garden.

Imrahil rose from his seat and kissed Míri, before motioning her to the easy chair next to him. Aragorn drew up a chair for me.

"How are you?" The King of Gondor asked in a serious voice. There was a hint of steel in his voice.

"Nothing happened to me," I said feeling slightly irritated. They had to think I was an awful sissy after yesterday. "How is Elladan?"

Elrohir smiled reassuringly. "He will be fine. Neither the wound nor the poison on that arrow will do an elf real harm. In a week or two he will be back at work, drilling you with those runes you like so much."

I exhaled deeply, feeling relief wash over me. If Elrohir could joke about this, Elladan would be alright.

"Then we can talk about the matter at hand," Imrahil interrupted. "Lothíriel, do you have any idea why someone would want to kill you?"

I stared at Imrahil. "How should I know that? I have no idea! I never did anything that should make it interesting for someone to kill me."

"Perhaps it is not something she has done, but something she will do," Míriël suggested.

Aragorn bent forwards, his eyes piercing. "What are you implying, my lady?"

Míriël arched a thin black eyebrow at her king. "There was a certain amount of tension between the high lords of Rohan, your highness. I cannot imagine you missed that."

My thoughts raced. "Are you…" I had to swallow, because my throat was suddenly very dry. "Do you think that someone killed me because of Eomer?"

My heart was suddenly beating very fast. Did Lord Grimsir have a daughter who was old enough to get married? I remembered his chilling gaze and the unspoken words at the coronation.

I felt that I could see my thoughts mirrored in Aragorn's eyes. The king thoughtfully stroked his beard. Imrahil was frowning.

I tried to imagine what they were thinking, forcing myself to analyze the situation logically.

The political situation in Gondor and Rohan was far from stable. If I was killed, it would not only be a bad omen for Eomer's kingship, but the alliance between Rohan and Gondor would be weakened. The race for more influence at the court of Edoras would resume again and at the moment there was no other marriageable woman of suitable family in Gondor. Therefore it could be assumed that there were people both in Rohan and Gondor as well as in the eastern and southern realms who could profit from killing the betrothed of the king of Rohan.

I felt the beginning of a headache at the center of my forehead. I rubbed my head with my fingertips. Politics was a dangerous enough game back on earth. I had never considered how much more dangerous it could be here.

Finally Imrahil said in tense voice. "At the moment it the likeliest explanation is that someone wants to kill you because you are betrothed to Eomer. Aragorn, do you have any idea who would profit most among the Rohirric nobility?"

Aragorn's eyes were dark, his expression serious. "Húrin?"

The dark haired lord approached the table and bowed to his king. I realized that Húrin of the Keyes was the chief of intelligence in Gondor. How could I have missed that? It was probably intentional, but come to think of it, it was fairly logical.

"Your highness. My ladies, my lord Prince, lord Elrohir. If we narrow down the possible instigators to the high lords of Rohan – who are the ones closest to the throne, it is the Lords Berig and Eutharich who would profit most. Both have daughters not yet married. The Lady Basina is twenty-three, the Lady Eugilin is fifteen."

Míri nodded. She had known this as a matter of course. Her husband was looking thoughtful.

But it was Aragorn who spoke first. "I thought Berig was in favor of an alliance with Gondor. And I thought Eutharich too volatile to be so cunning."

"Nevertheless we should watch them closely," Imrahil suggested. "Politics by marriage is an old tradition in Gondor and Rohan. But there are others, further off that could just as easily think that this might be an opportunity to prevent a strengthening of Gondor."

"What about the Dunlendings? The clans of the empty lands between Gondor and Rohan care nothing for well patrolled borders," Arwen put in.

"There's too much choice in enemies for my taste," Elrohir said.

Yes, I could agree to that sentiment, I thought, sitting quietly in my chair listening to the others. This was supposed to be a time of peace, for heaven's sake!

But somewhere at the back of my mind a memory stirred.

_"For though Sauron had passed, the hatreds and evils that he bred had not died, and the King of the West had many enemies to subdue before the White Tree could grow in peace."_

I wished that I had never taken a look at those damn appendices of those damn books.

Why did this memory have to come back to haunt me now?

Damn.

"So what should we do now? Suggestions, my lords? My ladies?" Aragorn looked in turn at the faces of the assembled.

"Lothíriel should stay in the castle for the time being," Míri suggested.

Brilliant idea, I thought. A golden cage. _Nor iron bars a prison make…_ But I had to admit that she had a point. And I did not want Helmichis to catch an arrow for me. I gulped. The thought that someone **had** actually been severely wounded by an arrow that had been aimed at me, was sickening.

"I have already sent a message to Eomer. He needs to increase his personal vigilance, too." Imrahil said.

"Was that wise?" Aragorn asked. "Won't he simply drop everything and come here? Just to make sure that nothing has happened to Lothíriel?"

I had to close my eyes. Aragorn's words had rekindled my longing for Eomer. Gods, how I would love to be in his arms now.

Arwen shook her head at her husband. "I do not think so. Just as you do, Eomer holds his duty above all concerns of his private life. And he has to know what has happened. They may not dare to attack you or me, but that may not necessarily be true of Eomer. Especially with two high lords who would have loved to claim the throne for themselves."

I wanted to cover my ears with my hands. I did not want to know that. I did not want to spend a long winter confined to the castle of Dol Amroth being afraid what might happen to Eomer, far away in Edoras.

Aragorn nodded. "You are wise as well as beautiful." He smiled at Arwen and reached out for her. She allowed herself to be drawn close to Aragorn's chair, but remained standing, her slender white hand held by his strong, tanned one. "Very well. The message to Eomer is on its way. Lothíriel is to stay in the castle. And no more riding for you, either, meleth-nîn."

Arwen sighed. "I agree."

"And I will send out my men. It will take time, but they should be able to discover what is behind this." Húrin added.

"I expect them to," Aragorn told his spymaster sternly.

I sat hunched down in my chair. I had felt happy and safe. I had thought the worst to endure for the foreseeable future would be waiting for spring to come, when I could see Eomer again, and figuring out those damn runes.

Now I was frightened and the peace we had enjoyed for only such a short time was suddenly filled with unknown foes.

I did not sigh. I drew a shaky breath and turned to Elrohir. "If this discussion is over for the time being, could I visit Elladan? I would like to know how he is. And thank him."

Elrohir smiled at me, but it was a serious, small smile. "Not today, Lothíriel. But soon."

Oh, Gods. How bad can "not seriously harmed" be?

"Elrohir, there is the matter of Lothíriel's guard. Would you please accompany me?" Imrahil asked.

"What matter of my guard?" I looked inquiringly at Imrahil.

Imrahil shrugged. "Rhawion wants to be released from my service. He thinks he should have seen the attackers or at least caught that arrow."

"But…" I had wanted to say, 'I like Rhawion'. Now I thought this sounded stupid. Should he have seen it?

Elrohir shook his head. "They were too far away and well hidden for a mere human to notice them. It was more chance and a faint smell of wax that alerted me. Elvish eyes, ears and nose are keener than the faculties of humans. We are also a little bit faster. There was nothing he could have done. And had he caught the arrow, he'd be dead now."

Imrahil turned his palms up in a gesture of 'I told him so'. The elf smiled faintly. "Very well, I will talk to him. But afterwards I need a moment of your time. There is still the matter to attend to that my father sent us here for. And at the moment my care has to be for Elladan."

"Of course," Imrahil nodded and rose from his chair. Elrohir followed suit, moving lithely as a cat. "If you will excuse us?" Imrahil bowed to the king and queen, Elrohir gave only a small nod. The elves are lucky. They are above mortal etiquette.

They left the room to go and talk to Rhawion. I hoped they could convince him to stay. I trusted the old, hardy soldier. I was glad that he was not dead.

That thought brought back that icy weight in the pit of my stomach.

Someone had tried to kill me.

* * *

How do you live with the knowledge that someone has tried to kill you?

I can tell you. You simply go on as if nothing has happened.

In the afternoon of that day an embassy from the town of Dol Amroth came to the castle with the traditional gift of welcome for the king. This was a great golden goblet filled with golden and silver coins. The treasury of the king could always do with an addition to his funds.

After the goblet had been received by the king the mayors of Dol Amroth town and harbor pledged fealty to the King.

In the evening a dinner and dance was held at the castle to honor the king and queen. Apart from the nobles that traveled with the entourage of the king the most prosperous and influential citizens of Dol Amroth town and village attended.

In Eomer's company and without the threat of murder hanging over my head, I would probably have enjoyed myself. As it was, I counted the hours until I was able to excuse myself and go to bed.

* * *

In the end I was relieved when Aragorn and Arwen finally left Dol Amroth two days later.

The visit had not been how I had wanted it to be. Not only because of attempt on my life. There had been little time for talking, or spending time together, being at ease the way we had been on the road, or at Minas Tirith, when the fellowship had still been together.

The King and the Queen had visited Dol Amroth. Of Aragorn and Arwen I had seen almost nothing.

Would it be like that between Eomer and me, too?

I stared down at the parchment of tengwar runes before me. I actually could decipher them quite easily by now. But this success did not fill me with any sense of accomplishment now.

The text I had just written down was an account of old Gondorian history. An essay about a marriage treaty, in fact.

How would it be, I wondered, to be queen in these dangerous times?

How long would I last?

* * *

**A/N:** The description of the reception of the king at Dol Amroth in the last two chapters follows accounts of the reception of European kings of the Middle Ages in free cities.


	73. Miserable Me

**A/N: **I know that elves do not get sick, but I assume that being severely wounded and poisoned, an elf may get feverish.

I have **changed the chapters 34, 41, 58, 59, 68, 71** because of HoME 12. Imrahil has a damn (sorry) family tree in there. Elphir is his oldest son. In my story he is at the moment captain of the King's guard at Minas Tirith and he is the twin of the dead Lothíriel. The next two sons, Erchirion and Amrothos I killed at the Morannon. **So you don't have to reread the chapters. Just remember that there is an additional brother, called Elphir, 32, and captain of the royal guard at Minas Tirith.**

* * *

**73. Miserable Me**

Five days after Elladan had taken the arrow to save my life, I was allowed to visit him. When I entered the room, I stopped dead in my tracks. He was lying in his bed, the covers drawn up to his chin, his arms folded across his chest. He was very pale and his eyes were closed.

I gasped with fright. Elves slept with their eyes open! Was he dead? Elrohir had told me he was much better!

I rushed to the bed, and then almost jumped out of my skin again, when Elladan opened his eyes.

My heart was thumping madly, adrenaline rushing through my body. I slumped down on the wooden chair that had been drawn up beside the bed.

Elladan turned his head slowly, his grey eyes still slightly glazed with fever. "Scared you, did I?" He asked in a hoarse voice. Then he gave me a slow, lopsided smile. "Don't worry, I almost as good as new. A little black arrow and a drop of poison are not enough to get rid of me."

I exhaled deeply and folded my trembling fingers around my knee. "That's good to know. For a moment you had me almost fooled. I thought elves sleep with their eyes open."

Elladan's grin broadened. "That's true for the most part. But even a high elf will close his eyes to sleep when he is hurt or feeling very…relaxed and safe." There was a suggestive twinkling in his eyes as he said that.

I gulped and felt heat rush to my cheeks.

"But I for one prefer sleeping with my eyes closed at any time. Perhaps that's the human part of my heritage. Elrohir never closes his eyes to sleep," he added. "That's a good way to tell us apart."

I smiled at this joke. "And who might ever get the chance to see both of you asleep at the same time?"

"Man or elf doesn't kiss and tell," he replied.

Elves don't take lovers. They fall in love, and marry. But Elrohir and Elladan were terrible flirts. When they finally reached Aman, after Aragorn had passed away, they would be a disaster to the elleth there until they'd find their respective true loves. I had to grin at the thought. That would be a spectacle that I'd like to witness…

Well. I sighed. I knew that I could not get that opportunity. No dead humans in Aman. What a morbid thought! But mingled in the relief at Elladan's recovery was the strange realization that he would live on and look just the same, when I was a long time dead and gone. You may look at a tree, or a mountain, or a castle and think the same. I guess everyone does that sometimes. I assure you, it's different when you look at a person that looks not so very different from a human being. Immortality is weird.

"How are you?" Elladan asked suddenly, interrupting my musings. I looked up. I opened my mouth and closed it again. How am I. How am I?

"Castlebound. Frightened. Confused." I replied, rubbing my forehead with eternally cold fingers. Now, in the middle of November, it was cold in Dol Amroth, and although the thick walls of the castle prevented the rooms from getting really cold, it was also almost impossible to get the rooms really warm. Confusion and fear are not really feelings that make you warm and fuzzy. I felt pretty miserable. And there was still no letter from Eomer. Only the answer to that emergency message. A short 'thank you' and 'all necessary precautions are being taken'. Nothing of a personal nature. Well, I would have felt silly about an 'I love you' flashed from signal beacon to signal beacon. But I longed to hear from Eomer. And I woke every day with the fear that this would be the day a message would arrive telling me that there had been an attempt to murder Eomer. A successful attempt.

I gulped and forcibly turned my thoughts away from my fears.

"But I am getting better at my runes. And I still know how to hold a sword." I added, trying on a faint smile.

Elladan gave a tiny nod in appreciation of my answer. "Yes, my brother tells me that you are a quick study. You need to work with weights to strengthen you arm muscles."

I made a face at him. Imrahil had told me that only this morning. Númendil had given me his first weights to practice. The weights he had used when he was seven. The weights that wore me out at twenty-five. Lothíriel, the ranger out of Erlangen. Lothíriel, the shield-maiden. It's a constant wonder to me that they did not ask Gandalf to simply take me back to wherever he found me.

"It took even Elrohir and me years to build up our strength," Elladan told me in an attempt to cheer me up. Apart from moving his head, the elf was lying absolutely still.

"Thank you. Ada has assured me that in a year's time I will have enough strength for the ceremonial duties as a shield-maiden. I am just grateful that I don't have to actually join the ranks of the Rohirric warriors." I replied, shuddering at the thought. There was enough fighting required for the purely "ceremonial" position of the shield-maiden.

And Eowyn had campaigned for years to turn the "ceremonial" to an actual rank. She had trained her hand-maidens for battle. She had plans for a Queen's company made up and ready in a drawer. I would be happy if I made it through the sword-dance of the king and queen on mid-summer's day unscathed. Well, I would only have to do that in two years. Ever since I had been told about the position of the "shield-maiden" of Rohan, I was grateful that my wedding would be in September next year.

"It will be interesting to see what Eowyn will be up to in Ithilien," Elladan commented, probably having read my thoughts. I chuckled at that. "Yes, most fascinating. Poor Faramir. – Can I get you anything to eat or drink? Or should I leave? Please tell me if you get too tired."

I searched his pale face and still figure for a hint how he was really feeling. But I just could not tell. Elves are too different from us, even though they look so similar.

"No, thank you, Lothíriel. I am really fine. My body is healing with the power and the speed of the grace of the Eldar. And although the healing powers are dimmed in a warrior, my brother is still an able healer."

"If you say so. I guess I'll never get used to you elves." I shook my head at him.

For some reason this made Elladan grin broadly. "You have no idea how refreshing it is, to meet a human being that is not intimidated by us." He told me.

I blinked at him. "But I am. Intimidated. In awe."

"But not in the same way as someone born here and raised with the idea of us being… a… hm… being of a higher order." Elladan replied.

I frowned. "But you are. Aren't you? You are the Firstborn, immortal, beloved by the Valar, and all that."

Elladan gave a slight shake of his head. "You are right and you are wrong. We are all that what you said, and more, but at the core we are the same as you are. We are children of Eru Ilúvatar. And He never said that the one or the other of his children were better than the other, in any way that really matters."

I pondered this for a moment. I am not good at philosophical questions. I mean, I have some thoughts about life and death and the meaning of this mess. But I am thrown when I only think about Elladan, pale, grey-eyed, wryly smiling Elladan living forever and sailing to a tangible, real-life paradise somewhere yonder. "Hm." I said. That was the best I could come up with.

Elladan's lips quivered in a grin. "I'm sorry, Lothy. I did not mean to get that philosophical. Lying here and waiting to be better makes me think too much for my own good. I guess I'll do better with some more sleep."

"I don't mind." I rose to my feet. "Sleep well. And thank you very much for saving my life."

"You are very welcome," Elladan replied, and then closed his eyes.

I left the room and silently closed the door behind me.

* * *

A few days later a messenger arrived.

Finally there was a letter from Eomer. There were actually two letters. One was addressed at Imrahil, the other was for me.

The first told of an attempt to kill Eomer.

Eomer had been travelling thought the five provinces of Rohan since we had parted. He had to show himself to his people, accept their oaths of fealty and collect the taxes. A dangerous thing. There are tales of assassination attempts of the king's marshals in the annals of Rohan. People don't like to pay taxes. Some people really don't like paying taxes. Therefore Eomer had taken the White Riders with him as his personal guard. This had saved him. But one rider was dead, three were severely wounded.

The assassins had escaped. They had been clothed in black, with masks covering their faces and hoods hiding their hair. There was no way to tell who they had been. Apart from the fact that they were excellent fighters to take on the White Riders, kill one, wound three and escape.

I was sitting on the edge of a chair in the library. My hands were shaking so hard that I could not open the roll of parchment that contained the letter Eomer had written to me.

Someone had tried to kill me.

Someone had tried to kill Eomer.

My life with Eomer had almost come to an end before it had ever begun.

This thought stuck in my mind like a pin. A sting that irritated shocked and made me flaming mad.

Whoever was behind that, they would pay for it. They would pay dearly. And I would not allow myself to be frightened off a life with the man I loved.

I felt hot anger surge through my body, blood rushing to my cheeks, my fists clenching involuntarily.

It was better to be angry than to be frightened.

After a moment, I managed to exhale deeply. I drew a long, trembling breath and exhaled again, willing some of the tension to drain away from me.

Eomer was alive. I was alive. We would stay alive. And we would find out who was behind this and they would pay for it.

I unrolled the parchment.

* * *

Eomer was a not a good letter writer. He had also made the mistake to write this letter by hand, instead of dictating it to a scribe. Did I mention that I was only beginning to be able to read the tengwar runes in _books_? Did I mention that runes in what passes as books in Middle Earth are written, no, almost _painted_ painstakingly in the neat, clear handwriting of _professional scribes_?

To cut a long story short: I could not read that letter.

It was Míri who finally read that letter to me. She assured me that Eomer's handwriting was horrible and that he used runes that certainly did not belong to what she judged to be the proper script of Gondor and Rohan. However, _she _could read the letter.

"My dear Lothíriel," the letter read. "I hope you are well and I trust you do not venture from the castle and that you are never without your guards. It will be a long time until this hard-won peace is without threat. Don't worry about me. The life of a king is always at risk. My Riders are numbered among the best fighters of the West. I am safe enough. I miss you. The dogs come when I call their names. They are growing quickly. Eowyn sends her love. I miss you and I am looking forward to seeing your sweet face again. May Eru and all the Valar bless your every step.

Your Betrothed. Eomer. Son of Eomund."

_My sweet face…_

Better than nothing, I suppose. And he did say that he missed me.

Míri took a look at my face and laughed. "What did you expect? A poem? A ballad? Eomer is a good man, and he will be a good king. He is a wonderful singer, dancer and warrior. But he is not a man of the letters. If you are looking for minnesang, you would have to ask Faramir to compose a piece for you. Much to the dismay of his father, Faramir acquired quite a reputation as the writer of songs about courtly love in his youth."

"I bet Eowyn doesn't give a damn about poems or the romantic content of letters," I grumbled.

This made Míri chuckle again. "No, I don't think she does. Life's unfair, isn't it?"

I gave her a wry grin. "Horribly. I can only hope Eomer does not expect a long flowery letter in return. Something like that," I pointed at the letter, "I think I can manage. The kind of letter I would have loved to read I could **neither** read **nor** write at the moment. I'll just have to take the good with the bad."

* * *

Nevertheless I spent the rest of the day in the library, composing a draught of the letter I wanted to send to Eomer.

Although, of course, there was not really much that I could say in that letter, even if I had been fluent in the use of that dratted runes. Letters can get lost. Letters can fall into the wrong hands. So there was little I could really say in that letter. But there was so much I wanted to say.

I sat at the desk in the library and stared at the wax tablet I used to practice my runes on and that was now furrowed with the draught for that letter.

I showed the draught to Elrohir. He corrected it. Only twelve mistakes in twenty sentences. My best result so far. Elrohir gave me a parchment for the letter and a fresh inkpot.

My head hurt and felt utterly frustrated at the slow, painstaking way I drew those runes.

When I was finally finished, my hands were stained with black ink. I sealed the letter with my new seal, the seal with the ship of Dol Amroth and the blossom for my own name. I used the blue wax of Dol Amroth. But today I found no joy in the seal or the wax.

With all my heart I wished I was with Eomer. And how I wished we had thrown all caution to the wind and made love that day on the road from Tarnost to Minas Tirith. The thought that I might never feel his naked body close to mine, if the assassins succeeded, made me feel icy and sick. I wanted to live. I wanted him to live. I wanted to live with him. _Right now._

I covered my face with my hands. My palms smelled faintly of the wax from the tablet.

I felt silly tears pricking behind my closed eyelids.

_What the hell was the matter with me today?_

After a moment I rose from my seat and carried the letter to Prince Imrahil, who promised to pass it on to the messenger. The messenger would depart before the break of dawn. Eomer would probably read my letter within two weeks.

_I miss him so much,_ I thought, and felt like crying again.

* * *

I found out what was the matter with me, when I went to use the privy. The privies at Dol Amroth are pretty good. You have one on each story of the castle, set in the outer walls. The sea is almost as good as a water closet. I narrowed my eyes and looked closely at the condition of the wooden seat before I sat down. But I needn't have worried. Míri has drilled the servants very well. Everything was clean and neat.

I sat down. As I looked down at my trousers and my underwear I noticed red, bloody stains on the fabric.

At the sight I felt utterly defeated.

Not that on top of everything else. It should not come back so soon. Damn. It was only a few weeks that the Implanon had been cut out of my arm. I should have had a respite of these fucking monthlies and all that bother. Especially since it was still ten months until I was married. Until I had to get pregnant.

But here I was, sitting on the toilet, feeling my stomach cramp up and the almost forgotten feeling of a monthly nausea rising up inside of me. There was a basket with small squares of old cloth set aside to be used for cleaning yourself. And a bucket with cold water. One session, one piece of cloth. And that is luxury. In most places you get only a bucket of water. You have a hand, so why should you need anything else?

I cleaned myself up and hurried to Míri. I had no idea what to use as sanitary napkin.

It turned out that the word "napkin" was a very fitting description.

Míri was immensely pleased. In retrospect, I think she was pretty worried that I might not be able to conceive, having no monthlies for such a long time. She simply could not believe what I had told her about the Implanon thingy.

But I digress. Back to the icky business at hand.

In a way, I was lucky.

I was lucky that in Middle Earth – not as in the Middle Ages on earth – there is actually such a thing as underwear. Perhaps Gandalf brought the idea with him from a visit to Nuremberg. Old folks need their warmth, especially the tender parts. Anyway, there is underwear. Female undies have two loops on the underside. Until the moment I stood in front of Míri, watching with flaming cheeks as she showed me how those silly stuffed napkins worked, I had not realized what those loops were for.

Now I knew. The napkins used by the human females in Middle Earth to catch the mess of the monthlies are stuffed little squares of cloth, which have strips at the front and at the rear. Those strips are slipped through those loops and tied in place. It is almost comfortable. And being a noble lady, I did not have to do my own washing. Thank God for small mercies!

* * *

With the blood came the cramps, with the cramps came the feeling of nausea, with the feeling of nausea came up everything I had eaten that day.

My dinner was a cup of tea, an insidious mixture of vervain mixed with athelas. It did help, but I felt absolutely miserable for five days.

* * *

**A/N: **My sympathies to everyone out there with stomach ache...


	74. Ringarë

**74. Ringare**

I sat on a wooden bench at the outer wall of the hall that served as the gym – training area – exercise room in Dol Amroth. I was thoroughly wet with sweat, my hair escaping from the bun in long, damp tendrils. I was barely able to move my left arm, and if I tried to stand my knees were shaking.

So I remained where I was, polishing Tínu, my elvish blade in an absentminded fashion and watching the spectacle unfolding before me. Elladan was sitting a few feet away from me. He was already training again, but only a few hours each day.

At the moment Elrohir and eleven years old Númendil were having a go.

Númendil had not yet started his teenage growth spurt. He was a slender boy with a still childish figure. He flicked around the room in a blur of grey tunic and silvery blade. He twisted, darted, attacked, and countered with the smoothness of six years of continuous training. Although he did not have the strength or experience to actually defeat Elrohir, of course, he was leading him a merry chase. Númendil knew his advantages, and played them out to the best of his ability. He was fast as hell, he was lighter on his feet than the adult elf, and his small size made Elrohir miss now and again, used as the elf was to taller opponents.

I felt completely wrung out. I had had my turn out there already. I was out of breath, bruised and battered. If there had been any doubt at all that I was a) not a ranger and b) not a fighter, now, after training eight weeks with the sons of Elrond, I knew better. Not that I had had much of a doubt to my (altogether missing) abilities as a shield-maiden even before I started this training.

I am a loser where martial arts are concerned. I'm just too timid and scared to train as I should. I hesitate when I should strike with all my strength and I duck when I should throw myself against my opponent's lunge. I had picked up the basics from Glorfindel back in Rivendell last year, and I know that I was improving a little every day, but only a very little. It's just so difficult for me to even try to hurt Elrohir or Elladan or Dil (he's a child, for heaven's sake!). But of course that's how weapons' training works.

Throw some orcs at me, and I might survive long enough for them to kidnap me and carry me off, but that about sums up my skills with a sword. And in that case it's better to be killed at once. Take my word for it. Been there, done that, not liked it at all.

Nevertheless I would have to keep up my training, hoping that I would improve in time.

I would be the shield-maiden of Rohan. I would have to be able to uphold the honour of my people. The title of shield-maiden of Rohan refers to the duties of the Queen of Rohan in times of war and during certain ceremonies.   
If all else fails, it is the duty of the Queen to be the shield of her people – and do whatever is necessary. That has never happened in the history of Rohan, so the descriptions of those duties are kind of vague. But that is anyway where the title comes from.

In times of peace the shield-maiden dances the "dance of swords" with the king at the mid-summer bonfire, to call on the blessing of the Valar. As I had seen what such a dance of swords is supposed to look like, I did not object to training with the sword several hours a day, much to Míri's dismay.

The Lady Míriël wanted me to learn real dancing and sewing as well. No. Not sewing. It's called "embroidery". Noble ladies do that apparently. Even in Middle Earth. Well, I knew that Arwen did that. After all I had seen the banner she had made for Aragorn.

I must confess that I did my best to ignore Míri's effort and tried to keep going from weapon's training to those blasted runes and brushing up my Sindarin and my feeble efforts at Rohirric and back. Rohirric… I had to learn that language. I wanted to learn that language. Trust me, Latin is easier.

All in all my days were so full from dawn till early dusk that I had no time to worry about assassins, politics, or even missing Eomer. Mischief needs idle hands. I was kept out of mischief pretty effectively.

I sheathed Tínu and exhaled deeply. Only now my breathing was back to normal and my heartbeat was slowing down. My stamina was better than it had been. But training with elves keeps any feelings of accomplishment to a minimum. However, it improves your character. Modesty and all that.

At that moment the door of the hall opened and Mel slipped into the room. For a moment the small boy watched his older brother fighting against Elrohir, and then he slid down on the bench next to me.

"Númendil is really excellent." He remarked. "Ada says he's born to the sword. Ada says not even Elphir was as good with the sword at Dil's age."

Mel was careful no to mention the two older brothers who had not returned from the war. Grieving and remembering was done in privacy. Life had to go on. Elphir had sent word that he could not make to Dol Amroth for mettarë. Security at Minas Tirith had to be kept at a high level. There had been an attack by orcs on the company at Osgiliath and the negotiations with the Duke of Harondor, Herion, were difficult. The ambassadors of Harad and Khand insisted on being included in the negotiations, and the representative of Umbar had refused to participate. The original plan had been to do it exactly the other way around.

It was all about re-establishing the kingdom of Númenor in Middle Earth as it had been once, long ago.

* * *

So, trip down memory lane – by now I was able to read "A History of Númenor for Beginners". Of course that's not really the title of the book in question. But it **is** a fairly short, easy to read account of the most important facts and figures of the third age. 

What had happened to Gondor and Arnor after Isildur had perished?

After Elendil's death and the death of his sons, Arnor and Gondor, which had originally been only separate fiefs under the supreme authority of the King in Minas Tirith had developed into two separate kingdoms. But of course it had not stopped at this. It never does. Although the laws of Númenor were made to have only one son – the oldest son – inherit the respective kingdom, times and customs had changed, war and the enemy had not increased the stability of these kingdoms. The Númenorean hold on the southern and eastern lands had always been tenuous; there has always been trouble there, battles, rebellions and wars flared up on a semi-regular basis.

I still don't know much about Harondor, Umbar, Harad, Khand or the far eastern lands of Rhûn. But there are people in each of those lands that had been there before the Númenoreans came and set themselves up as lords. Harondor and Umbar profited immensely from this arrangement, growing rich with trade and the inventions brought across the seas by the Númenoreans. But there the climatic conditions are not as severe as in Harad. And the lands are not quite as vast as in the case of Khand and the far eastern lands that are called Rhûn. Anyway, as the power of the king in Minas Tirith waned, problems arose.

"Nature abhors vacuum". One of the sillier quotes used on way too many inappropriate occasions. But it describes fairly adequate what happened.

When there was civil-war in Gondor over the question of succession to the throne, the corsairs of Umbar quickly turned their minds onto the thought that they could manage much better without a Númenorean lord up in the castle of Umbar. That was the end of that lord up in that castle, though they welcomed the rebellions of the Gondorian civil war with open arms into the circles of their nobility.

At around the same time Haradwaith ceased paying tribute to Minas Tirith with the full support of the Númenorean lord set up in their capital. A hundred years went by until a king of Gondor finally defeated Harad again. And only three hundred years later Umbar was retaken for Gondor. But only for a short period of time. About fifty years after that success at Umbar, the eastern and southern territories were in effect lost to Gondor.

Though, of course, Gondor never officially relinquished its claim over Umbar and Harondor as Gondorian provinces, or on the status of Harad as a tributary state. Now that the northern and southern kingdom is reunited again, the question of the borders between Gondor and Harad is up again, too.

Not that there were many people left in Harondor at all. But obviously the Duke of Harondor, Herion, quickly realized that there was more profit to be had from an alliance with Gondor than as the outermost province of Harad. He was more than ready to come home into the fold of the kingdom. Aragorn wanted to include the corsairs into the talks, because a solution had to be found to stop the frequent incursions of their pirates on the coasts of Gondor anyway. More power to him, Aragorn wanted to try talking first before giving out the call to the weapons. What he did not want was to include the question of Harad into this business. He maintained that Harondor had always been a province of Gondor and had never ceased to be that. Therefore it was a question of domestic policy. Nothing of interest for Harad. But it was, of course. The King of Harad in his desert city Hyarmendaciliath was loath to give up the most fertile lands of Harad and an important strategic outpost of his realm just like that.

To add to those difficulties, for the first time ever the great Realm of Khand wanted to be included in the process of establishing the political order of Middle Earth. They wanted Nurn, and would have liked to "have" all of Mordor. Aragorn wanted to keep Mordor and Nurn neutral. Even desolate and destroyed after the eruption of the Orodruin, Mordor is one hell of a natural fortress. Aragorn naturally did not want to end up face to face with yet another enemy behind the Ephel Duath.

All in all, the situation was more or less impossible, verging on hopeless.

Gondor and Rohan were still in the middle of rebuilding. Mustering troops for another war so soon after being nearly destroyed by Sauron and Saruman was next to impossible. Harad, Khand and Umbar knew that very well.

So much for turning the swords into ploughshares…

The situation was a mess. Shit, to be honest. Deep shit. Neck-deep and rising.

That much was clear even from my worm's eye view of the high politics going on far above my head. The knowledge of the basics of Gondorian history and the on-going politics made a move to kill me or Eomer almost logical. A logical move for all too many players in that great game. Power hungry nobles in Rohan. Corsairs in Umbar just for the hell of it. Harad, Khand… and Elrohir had told me of the famous death squadrons of Harad. Think ninjas. Yeah. Black arrows, assassins clothed in black… I don't believe in chance either.

You'd think they'd come up with a different costume in a different world. I ask you, is that original?

* * *

I came out of my musings in time to watch the spectacular end to a spectacular fight. 

Finally Elrohir made the deciding move. He suddenly dropped to his knees. All at once the advantage of coming at his opponent from underneath was with the elf. He thrust his blade up and around, jumped back to his feet and danced backwards. Númendil's sword went flying.

The fight was over.

They bowed to each other. They walked over to the bench. Númendil was positively drenched in sweat. Elrohir was breathing only a little faster and his hair was just a little damp.

"You were great, Dil," I told the boy.

He smiled at me, glowing with pride. "Thank you. But you were good today, too."

"Please don't tell me that you watched!" I groaned. "I know by now that I will never get the hang of it."

Elrohir grinned at me. "Perhaps I should wear a mask?"

He shook his head at me. "I keep telling her that I would not be worth my mettle as a teacher if I could not keep a beginner from hurting me, but she simply does not believe me. When you are back in form, we will have to show her what a real fight looks like."

Elladan nodded. "When mid-winter's gone I think I'll be able to match you again."

He grinned at his brother. "That will be fun."

I grimaced. It **is** interesting to watch a sword fight. But my nerves are not quite up to it. Half the time I want to cover my eyes and my ears like a child. I'm simply not made up to be a fighter. Eowyn would be thrilled to watch the match, though. But Eowyn was in Edoras, pining for her betrothed. Life's unfair.

Weapon's training done for the day, we went back to our respective rooms to get washed and ready for the rest of the day. For me that meant a lesson of household management with the Lady Míriël and Master Enho, and afterwards another session with the twins. More Rohirric, more runes.

* * *

Back in my room I stripped and carefully slid a washing cloth dripping with hot water down my sweaty body. Every now and again I winced when I touched a bruise. I enjoyed the soft foam of the lavender soap on my skin. It's not the same as shower gel, but it is nice. And the way the soap is made at Dol Amroth the fragrance of the soap clings to your skin all day. Nice. 

As a noble lady I am entitled to a real bath once a week. I remember from the stories my grandmother told me back on earth how much she always looked forward to Friday evening and the bath in the tub in the kitchen. Here, the tub was brought up to my room, but I was looking forward to Friday night just as much. To get completely warm and clean. Bliss!

Clenching my teeth I slathered athelas salve over my bruises. King's wort, oh, kingly, heavenly herb!

Then I dressed in a simple blue linen dress edged with satin. Míri insists that I wear dresses now and again. The blue one is actually quite comfortable and looks nice, though it does nothing for my eyes and my hair colour. I have to wear greens and golds and browns to emphasize the drab colours nature chose for my hair and eyes. Oh, well. I am used to my looks by now.

Fumbling a bit, because there was naturally no mirror in my room, I coiled up my hair to bind it into a tight bun again. Adding a little pale powder to my cheeks I felt ready to go down to my lessons.

Managing a noble household really is very much like the management of a business. The Lady of the Manor is in charge of everything pertaining to the management of the household. She employs the servants. She pays the servants and the personal guard. She is responsible for the roster of duties of the servants. She is responsible for the up-keep of the castle, including facilitating all necessary repairs. She has to oversee the costs for food, horses, and clothes. She is also responsible for arranging the marriages of the servants, although it is the lord's word that gives the public permission to marry.

I could go on and on. The list of duties is endless. And I was only beginning to learn the titles of the different posts in a noble household and at court. At the moment I felt utterly bewildered at the end of each lesson. It was a headache. A pain in the…

I sighed and succumbed to temptation.

Only a few minutes of staring out to sea. Only two minutes. Maybe three.

I opened the window and, carefully holding up my gown, knelt down on the window seat. Now, in December or Ringarë, the weather had turned fairly cold even this far to the south. There was no snow, of course, but the sea was steel-grey and the sky barely lighter in colour.

I loved watching the grey waves rushing towards the peninsula of Cobas. The eternal motion of the sea comforted me and calmed me. And the western horizon always seemed to be lighter than the rest of the world. I knew, of course, that this was only imagination. Aman was somewhere up in the sky, beyond the tides of time and sea. But still… the Uttermost West held that magical promise… and looking into the West gave me the same feeling of awe and calmness that I had felt on earth when I entered a cathedral.

I inhaled the cool, salty sea breeze. A flock of white gulls were bobbing on the waves down below. It was low tide and a beach runner, a tiny silvery grey bird was running across the beach pecking at worms and shells.

A cathedral…

It was the 23rd of December. Almost Christmas. Another sigh.

A year ago I had had not thought to spend over the coming and going of Christmas. I had even forgotten my birthday. This year, more or less peacefully cooped up at Dol Amroth, it was different.

On the first of  December I had thought about what the day would have been like in Germany. It had been a Sunday. We would have lit the first candle on the Advent wreath. I would have opened the first little door on some silly Advent calendar, eating this small piece of chocolate with a nostalgic happiness derived from my childhood. Perhaps there would have been snow. Sometimes you get the first real snow in southern Germany as early as the beginning of November. On the 24th we would have gone to church. Then we would have gone home together and read stories under the Christmas tree. When I was little I had played a tune on my recorder. I shuddered at the memory. Afterwards we exchanged gifts and had a wonderful dinner of at least three courses.

No Christmas in Middle Earth. And no church. I had been not much of a church goer on earth. Christmas and Easter and at weddings, that was about it. It was strange that I should miss this now, here.

Mettarë, the feast of the winter-solstice is celebrated at the end of the year in Arda. It is actually the day between the years. Between December, Ringarë, and January, Narvinyë. On Mettarë, we say goodbye to the old year and exchange gifts as a symbol of the good things the year has brought to us. There is a feast and a bonfire, a silver coin is hidden in the grits, there is dancing and singing and story telling. On Yestarë, New Year's Day, there are a lot of funny customs about discerning what the future might bring and also some praying and offering to Eru and the Valar.

I was looking forward to those feast days, since last year, huddling around a fire somewhere in Hollin they had not been much fun. I knew that the same could not be said for the rest of my new family. Until this year, the family of Prince Imrahil had always spent those days together. This year, two of his sons were dead. And the oldest son was kept by his duties. Mettarë and Yestarë would be difficult for Míri, Ada, Dil and Mel.

Eru. They were with Eru. In His Hallowed halls. But there was no belief even among the humans as to where the souls went from there. Perhaps they stayed on there forever, at peace. Perhaps they returned to earth or to another world, with a new life. Hope and belief is always a precarious thing. But here, in Middle Earth, it was even more so. Or so it seemed to me at least. No Christ the redeemer here. The Valar, those divine figures in the Uttermost West, had never dealt much with the humans, no matter how much they were revered by the humans of Arda in a saint-like way.

We pray to Eru and ask the Valar for their blessing. The mountain tops are the place to be close to Eru. But there is no church and no bible. Faith in Middle Earth is even more intangible than back on earth. In a way that's a relief. There's nothing to start a war over in the beliefs of Middle Earth since Númenor sank down below the Sundering Seas. But when times are hard, there is little to cling to in terms of hope for a better world, not much of a promise as to what lies beyond.

I shivered in the cool wind and shook myself. Where had all those thoughts come from, all of a sudden?

I closed the window and headed for the door.

Míri would already be waiting for me. And it did not do to keep Master Enho from his duties.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you for all your kind reviews! 

…Lothíriel's miserable moments at the end of chapter 73 owe much to Yavannië's wonderful story about Hannah in Rohan, which gave me the courage to write down what had to go in there. Thank you! And I really hope that you continue with your story.


	75. Olde Timey Recipes

**A/N: **For this (and the next) chapter I rely partly on reliable information from specialists' literature on feasts in the Middle Ages, partly on snippets about Yule celebrations, which I found somewhere in the deep recesses of the World Wide Web (a site that I liked is "Wodensharrow"), and greatly on the wonderful, day long menu to **"Wile the Winter Away" by Mistress Margaret Makafee** from the Society for Creative Anachronism, who graciously allowed me to quote from her marvellous recipes as much as I want (which I did, fitting words, names and places etc. to give the impression that Lothy is reading the recipes in an old cookbook of Dol Amroth – the **real recipes **can be found **here**: contrib. andrew. cmu. edu/ usr/ grm/ wwaway- feast. html – take out the spaces…).

I hope you enjoy this long, rambling chapter!

Yours

Juno

* * *

**75. Olde Timey Recipes**

"Mettarë, or mid-winter's day is not only about having a feast and enjoying yourself," Míri told me in a serious voice. "It is also about responsibility and obligation."

We were standing in front of the huge wooden table in the large kitchen of Dol Amroth. Marai, the cook of Dol Amroth, was busy at the head of the table, pounding the thick, smooth dough for all she was worth. The muscles of her thick arms bunched up threateningly. The dough connected with the table in a heavy, slick thump.

The Lady Míriël of Dol Amroth had placed a fat, leather bound book on the table before her. The title of the book was drawn in strong black runes with all kinds of flourishes spilling to the sides. "**The Householde Booke of Dol Amroth Castle – Recipes and Advice**".

I looked down on the heavy tome somewhat apprehensively. I enjoyed my lessons in the management of a noble household even less than poring over the runes or flailing around with a sword. I hoped that no one would try to make me actually cook something.

Ini, the shy dark haired kitchen-maid, and Aleth, the scribe, were waiting patiently for orders by the Lady of Dol Amroth or Mistress Marai, the cook of Dol Amroth.

The preparations for Mettarë had been well under way for more than a week. I had been easily caught up in the general air of expectation and festivity that abounded in the castle of Dol Amroth. Even though almost everyone who lived or worked in the castle had lost a relative in the war, the atmosphere in the castle was bright and cheerful with the approaching holiday. Only the Prince Imrahil and the Lady Míriël were noticeably more solemn and reluctant with their smiles. But who could fault them? They had lost two sons at the Morannon, and their oldest son would not be able to celebrate the holiday with his families, because his duties kept him in Minas Tirith. I think I would have simply called the holiday off. Not so the Lady Míriël. Life had to go on.

And as the Lady of Dol Amroth it was her duty to prepare a huge feast for mid-winter's day, to succour the poor of village and town, and to call on the blessing of the Valar and the One. She had marshalled the preparations with the foresight of an experienced general. I had been in on the preparations from day one, as she had told me in no uncertain terms that I had to be able to oversee just the same kind of preparations in a year's time on my own, when I was mistress of the palaces of Meduseld in Edoras. The thought alone chilled my blood. But it made me pay attention to everything Míri did.

Now, the day before the feast, it was time for taking care of the last details.

"The poorest of the village and the town are invited to the castle to join us for the feast, as well as the dignitaries," Míri went on in her explanation. "When the days are the shortest, and the nights are the longest, we have to share what we have, in honour of the Valar and the One. - The first guests will arrive early in the morning, and different kinds of food and drink will be served throughout the day."

Marai looked up from her dough. "And when the first guests come to the castle in the morning, they will be offered a nice bit of fresh bread, and apple butter and some cheese, and, of course, some nice, hot tírithel," the plump, grey haired cook told me in her usual friendly, direct manner. Then she blushed and lowered her head. "Beg yer pardon, my lady."

Míri smiled. "That's alright, Marai. Listen well to what Marai tells you, Lothíriel. She's been cook in this kitchen for longer than I am the Lady of Dol Amroth."

"Aye, that is true, my lady. Me old bones tell me that every night. And me Mum was Cook here before me. But 'twas a happy day, the one when the Prince brought you home." Marai said. Then she gave the loafs a last slap, added a criss-cross design at the top of the loafs and shoved the heavy tray into the oven, moving as it the tray and the eight loafs upon the tray weighed no more than a feather.

Míri opened the book, and without having to look for the page, pointed at a paragraph of crabbed, spidery handwriting. Even though my knowledge of tengwar was improving day by day, it was difficult to decipher even the title of this small piece of writing.

* * *

**_Ealishd's Bread_**_   
An olde timey recipe set down by Mistress Ealishd of Edhellond, based on an ancient peasant bread recipe of the Bay of Cobas _

_Maketh 2 dense loafs _

_6 cups bread flour   
2 cups ale with barm   
2 Tbsp milk   
1 tsp salt _

_To properly make this bread, mix salt and flour. If thou useth ale and barm, make a well in the flour, pour in some barm and milk, cover with flour. Then thou shouldst drape a clean cloth over the bowl and put in a warm dry place for up to the third part of an hour or until the fifth turn of the spit dogs. Also, mix some flour with the rest of the barm. After the dough hath risen thusly, knead the barm mixture into flour, all the while adding a bit at a time, until all liquid is added and the dough formeth a smooth firm mass. If this is achieved, thou placeth the dough in a bowl once more and put it in a warm, quiet place for one hour. Then thou shouldst punch down the dough and knead it again. Afterwards divide the dough into two loafs and set them to rise. Bake in a well stocked oven (that hath been fired for some time before the baking). The baking will require the better part of an hour; thou shouldst take it out when the crust is nicely browned and golden. Allow the bread to cool. Serve forth with chees, apple butter and orange marmalade. _

* * *

It was the recipe for the bread that had just been put into the oven to bake. 

"But the bread's only the beginning," Marai the cook told me. "Around noon the fisher folk will be comin' up from the harbour. And they's in need for something hot, after comin' up the cliffs and all, with the wind blowin' as 'tis."

In time for Mettarë a storm had blown up from the West, with cold, strong winds and gusts of snow. Late though the winter was in coming here to the South, it now proved to be an exceptionally cold and harsh winter.

Marai pointed to a huge kettle simmering on the fire. "They likes their soup thick. And no fish tomorrow, oh, no. This is a beef soup, with ginger to fire up the wame."

Míri smiled at the old woman and merely leafed through the book again, neatly sliding her finger up to another recipe, this time written in bold, but very faded runes.

* * *

**_Beef Soupe of Ginger Beer_**_   
As I like to serve on colde days._

_For 20 servings   
1 gallon water (at least 1/2 from parboiling mushrooms)   
2.5 lb beef, cubed   
4 to 6 small onions   
4 to 6 carrots, chopped   
1 handful parsley, chopped   
36 oz beer   
beef broth   
1 bay leaf   
20 peppercorns   
ginger and balsamic vinegar to taste _

_Put all ingredients except beer, ginger and balsamic vinegar in pot, bring to boil. Lower heat if cooking on a hearth, remove from fire if thou hast only an open fire place for cooking. Add beer. Simmer for the halfe parte of an hour, add ginger and balsamic vinegar so it tasteth delectably and warmeth the wame. Allow the Soupe to Simmer for up to three hours. Serve. _

* * *

"That's the one," Míri told me. 

Hesitantly I stepped up to the big kettle and held my nose above the burbling surface of the hot soup. I inhaled the spicy fragrance and drew back quickly, screwing up my face against the sharp taste of ginger in my nose. Hastily turning away I sneezed three times, my eyes watering. This soup would definitely heat up the fishermen tomorrow.

"Wow," I gasped. "This smells really good… and strong."

"Aye," Marai agreed. "'Tis also a splendid remedy against the ague."

I had no idea what 'the ague' might be, but I rather thought that the mere fragrance of this soup was enough to raise the dead.

"What you have to understand, Lothíriel, is that as many dishes as possible are prepared before tomorrow, so that they will only have to be put on the fire again to simmer away and can be served whenever they are needed. Only a few dishes will be prepared tomorrow, mainly the ones needing fresh eggs." Míri told me. She pursed her lips. "Hm, let's see… Marai, do you make the Spinage Toste tomorrow?"

The cook nodded, while she got out several pie shells and bowls with berries and apples. "Aye, my lady. And 'tis not only the eggs that needs to be fresh with this dish. Spinage is of great benefit to the health and exceptional for growing children, but it must be served fresh and hot and may not be reheated or it will curdle the wame."

Míri bent down and flicked over some pages. "There, Lothíriel. That's the one. Mel hates it."

* * *

**_To Make Fried Toste of Spinage_**_   
from **The Second Part of the Good Huswife's Jewell**, _

_Take Spinnage and seeth it in water and salt, and when it is tender, wring out the water between two Trenchers, then chop it small and set it on a Chafing-dish of coles, and put thereto butter, small Raisons, Sinamon, Ginger, and Suger or honey if Suger is hard to come bye, and a little iuyce of an Orenge and two yolkes of rawe Egges, and let it boile till it be somewhat thicke, then toste your toste, soake them in a little Butter, and Suger, and spread thinne your spinnage upon them, and set them on a dish before the fire a litle while, & so serve them with a little Suger or honey upon them, if Suger is hard to come bye. _

* * *

Marai grinned. "Children rarely like what's good for them. I did not care overmuch for me father's strap either, when I was a wee lass, but now I know 'tis beneficial indeed." 

Míri snorted. "Marai has reared eight sons and three daughters. It was lively in the kitchen when they were little." She explained to me.

I blinked at the stout figure of the cook. Eleven children?

It was hard to believe. But I knew, of course, from almost forgotten history lessons that in the days before the industrialization and before women's' rights and before the advent of the pill, large families had been the norm and not the exception. "That's a lot of children," I said hoping that I sounded suitably impressed.

Marai turned her rather toothless grin to me. "Ah, no, young lady, that's no really very many. Me sister, well, she's had the rearing of sixteen, and ten lived to have children of their own. That's a plucky woman, I tell you."

While she was talking, she was fixing up the tarts, working swiftly and expertly. Her every movement told of the many long years of experience that she had as the cook in chief of the castle of Dol Amroth. She set Ini to prepare yet another dish and advised Aleth to note that certain spices should be restocked. It was clear that Marai was used to ruling supreme in her realm. "Now, tomorrow we'll make fresh Tostes with cheese, and fared eggs, which are nice to have between meal times and which can be served from the trays into the hands. But we will also have golden Crypes for the youngsters, methinks. Master Mel is most partial of them golden Crypes."

Míri rolled her eyes. "But serve the Spinage first, please, or he won't eat anything like vegetables at all tomorrow and be sick for two days afterwards."

Marai chuckled. "Aye, my lady. I will see to it."

Míri sighed. Apparently she was not at all sure if Mel could be kept in check tomorrow.

She turned her attention back to the book and motioned to me to sit down.

I sat down on the long wooden bench and obediently looked down at the thin pages of parchment. "There," Míri said and put her finger to a recipe that was written in clear, bold letters. "That's the first thing I learned to cook when I was a little girl."

* * *

**_Savoury Tosted or Melted Cheese_**_   
From Sir Cened Dínen's **Closet Unlocked**, from the town of Linhir, though this version is based on, but not identical to the version in **The Miscellany** by Cariadoc of the Bow and Mistress Dendermonde. _

_Cut pieces of quick, fat, rich, well tasted cheese, (as the best of Brye Cheshire, or sharp thick Cream-Cheese) into a dish of thick beaten melted Butter, that hath served for Sparages or the like, or pease, or other boiled sallet, or ragour of meat, or gravy of Mutton: and if you will, chop some of the Asparages among it, or slices of Gambon of Bacon, or fresh callops, or Onions, or Sibboulets, or Anchovis, and set all this to melt upon a Chafing-dish of Coals, and stire all well together, to Incorporate them; and when all is of an equal consistence, strew some gross White Pepper on it, and eat it with tosts or crusts of White-bread. You may scorch it at the top with a hot Fire-Shovel. _

* * *

"The children love it, especially when they are allowed to roast their pieces of bread in the fire place in the hall. Normally I don't allow that, because it's such a mess, but for Mettarë they usually get away with it." Míri commented. 

"And that's the recipe for the farsed eggs." She turned a few pages, tracing her fingertips over the smooth parchment until she arrived at some recipes written down in the spidery handwriting I knew from one of the first recipes she had shown me. "Every cook of Dol Amroth has left his or her favourite recipes and pieces of advice concerning the management of the household in this book. To me it is worth more than those annals of the history of Gondor my husband adores so much."

"And that it is, my lady," Marai put in. "Why, I'd wager to say it is worth its weight in gold! After all, its wisdom has kept us fed and healthy for many a century! This is the true life-blood of Dol Amroth." She nodded her head fiercely, her eyes blazing with conviction.

I looked down at the pages in front of me. I realized that the old woman was right. In a way, this collection of recipes and the bits and pieces about the efficient management of the household of Dol Amroth, were just as much a source of great history and noble deeds as the annals of Gondor and the fief of Dol Amroth that I had been poring over for so many weeks now.

This was history, too. The history of many days of patient labour in the kitchen, the gardens, the stillroom. A history written by many hands of men and women, who are not remembered in any tale or song, but who have played essential parts in the history of Dol Amroth nevertheless. So many hands had set down on the wilting pages of parchment how they had kept hunger and sickness at bay in Dol Amroth, how they had coped with bad harvests or the invasion of bugs or snails in the kitchen gardens.

And they were not forgotten, even if there were no bards to sing songs of their renown.

* * *

**_To Farse Egges_**_   
From **The** **Second Part of the Good Huswife's Jewell**, _

_In the manner much preferred by the Mistress Margaret_

_Take eight or ten eggs and boyle them hard, pill of the shelles, and cute every eg in the middle then take out the yolkes and make your __farsing stuff as you do for flesh, savign only you must put butter into it insteede of suet, and that a little so doon fill your Egges where the yolkes were, and then beinde them and seeth them a little, and so serve them to the table. _

_Maketh 3 dozen eggs _

_3 dozen hard boiled eggs, peeled and halfed, with the yolks removed   
farsing stuff   
lightly salted water   
string, or strips of cloth such as muslin or cheesecloth for tieing. _

_Put the stuffing into the eggs, tie the halfs together with tieing material, and boil for 5 to 10 minutes (this cooks the stuffing). Serve. _

**_To Farse all Things_**_   
From **The Second Part of the Good Huswife's Jewell**, _

_according to Mistress Filipka _

_Take a good handful of thyme, Isope, Parselye, and three or foure yolkes of Egges hard rosted, and choppe them with hearbes small, then take white bread grated and raw egs with sweet butter, a few small Raisons, or Barberies, seasoning it with Pepper, cloves, Mace, Sinamon and Ginger, working it altogether as paste, and them may you stuffe with it what you will. _

_Maketh stuffing for 3 dozen eggs _

_1/3 cup each fresh basil, parsley 1/2 tsp dry powdered thyme 1/2 tsp sage 12 hard-boiled egg yolks   
2 2/3 cups fresh bread crumbs   
3 raw eggs   
1/3 cup butter   
1/2 to 3/4 cup raisons   
1/2 tsp pepper   
1/2 tsp cloves   
1/2 tsp mace   
1 tsp cinnamon   
1 tsp ginger _

_Chop together the herbs and egg yolkes into small pieces. Mix with all other ingredients until everything is a paste-like (in this case, a stuffing like) consistency. Stuff. _

* * *

**_Crypes_**_   
from **The Miscellany** by Cariadoc of the Bow and Mistress Dendermonde. _

_Take white of eyroun, milk, and flour, and a little berme, and beat it together, and draw it through a strainer, so that it be running, and not too stiff, and cast suger thereto, if thou hast no sugar, thou taketh honey to taste, and salt, then take a chafer full of fresh grease boiling, and put thine hand in the batter, and let thine batter run down by they fingers into the chager; and when it is run together on the chafer, and is enough, take and nym a skimmer, and take it up, and let all the grease run out, and put it on a fair dish, and cast thereon sugar enough, and serve forth._

* * *

"In the manner much preferred by the Mistress Margaret…" I had to smile when I finally deciphered the crabbed, fine writing. Between recipes and advice on how to keep the snails away from the cabbage, and the moths from the chests of clothing, there were small glances at the lives and times of the men and women who had written down their favourite recipes and the wisest lore such as they knew it on those pages. There were recipes that had come from Tarnost and Pinnath Galen, and some from even farther away, written down after the Lord and Lady of Dol Amroth had returned from travels to Pelargir and Harondor, which obviously referred to meals they had encountered during the journeys.

* * *

**_Mushroom Pastries_**_   
originally from the Goodman of Tarnost, this version is from **The Miscellany** by Cariadoc of the Bow and Mistress Dendermonde. _

_Mushrooms of one night are the best, and are small and red inside, closed above; and they should be peeled, then washed in hot water and parboil; if you wish to put them in pastry add oil, cheese, and powdered spices. Maketh 1 large tart, or 8 tartlets--3 lbs mushrooms filled 24 tartlets enough stuffing left over for 2 or 3 more. _

_1 lb Mushrooms   
9oz cheese (tarnostian) (I prefer 1/2 this much--should coat shrooms without overpowering)   
1 Tbsp olive oil (can be left out) _

_Spice powder:   
1 t ginger   
1/4 t cinnamon   
1/8t cloves   
1/8 t grains of paradise   
1 t honey _

_Slice mushrooms and parboil (put into boiling water and cook two minutes); drain. Grate or chop cheese. Grind grains of paradise and mix up spices. Mix mushrooms, 2/3 of cheese, spices and oil. Put mixture into crust, put remaining cheese over. Makes scant 9" pie. Bake just shy of half an hour in a well stocked hearth. _

* * *

**_Cabbage Salad and Celery Sticks_**_   
From **The Fruit, Herbs and Vegetables of Harondor**, _

_"I once happened to be in Harondor in the company of a group of ladies and gentlemen, and we came one afternoon to a large village with a good inn, where we proposed to dine. One of the ladies, sitting in the window-seat of the dining room, which overlooked an orchard, said to me 'Let's go into the garden and pick a salad!' to which I replied, 'Yes, indeed!' When we got there we found nothing but cabbages, so the young lady picked one of these saying, 'Well, if there's nothing else, I'll make you all a nice salad out of tis.' _

_Having never seen or eaten anything like this before, I kept silent and waited for the outcome. First she removed the green outer leaves until she came to the white part, which she proceeded to slice very finely with a razor-sharp knife. She then salted and dressed it in the usual way, the ways is usual to these southern lands, which is with oil and vinegar and just a pinch of sugar, which they produce at the coast, and she brought it to the table, where it was pronounced excellent, and her ingenuity was much admired by the entire company." _

_Makes 6 cups _

_1 small head cabbage, grated   
3/4 cup cider or wine vinegar   
1.5 Tbsp sugar   
1 tsp salt (or to taste)   
2 Tbsp olive oil _

* * *

**_Celery Sticks_**

_"Celery is good at the beginning of this beautiful season autumn. Its seeds, which are extremely small, are sown in early spring in sifted ashes. When the stalks are a foot high, they need to be planted out about seven inches apart, for they grow quite large heads. They should be sown at sunset in good, rich soil, and watered often if the weather is dry. In early autumn the celery plants are dug up and earthed up close together in a trench about a yard deep, with the tops showing about four fingers above the earth, and left for fifteen to twenty days. They will then have blanched and become good to eat. _

_To eat celery, dig up the required amount and wash it well, and serve it raws with salt and pepper after meals. It is warm, and has great digestive and generative powers, and for the reason young wives often serve celery to their elderly or impotent husbands. _

_Celery   
salt   
pepper   
Remove stalks from the heart. Serve with salt and pepper." _

* * *

The virtue of celery as a remedy for impotence in elderly husbands! Oh my goodness! 

I snorted, and then chuckled, valiantly suppressing my desire to laugh aloud.

Míri, who had been talking with Marai about further details of the Mettarë celebrations turned to me with her eyebrows raised inquiringly. I only pointed at the line that had gotten me in this unhinged state, clenching my teeth and tightening my stomach muscles to keep me from laughing like a loon. Míri read the line I pointed at and grinned at me. She gave a low chuckle. "Well, I don't think you'll have to worry about **that** for some time, Lothíriel," she commented in a very dry voice. I gulped, my mirth gone all of a sudden. The thought of Eomer in my mind made my stomach flutter. Celery!

Marai remained completely unperturbed by my unladylike outburst. "I will also have some dishes with mushrooms made up tomorrow. The harvest was not as good as last year, my lady, but Ewan and some others have been up in the hills of Tarnost and they brought back a fair amount. It will be sufficient for tomorrow, at least. I am sure, my lady Lothíriel that you will enjoy that northern recipe. After all, you hail from way up away there."

"Far away" meant for the inhabitants of Dol Amroth invariably "far to the North". To the South there were only the uncivilized, dark skinned people of Haradwaith, to the East the strange slit-eyed people of Khand. Therefore I had to come from somewhere up in the North, where once the mythical northern kingdom of Arnor had been, and now was again. I did not contradict them or venture forth a more detailed explanation of my origins. "Way up north" was fine with me.

"Oh, you will have the 'mushrooms of the Shire' for us tomorrow?" Míri's eyes lit up. Obviously not only hobbits liked mushrooms in Middle Earth. Of the Shire? I eagerly flipped through the pages. The Lady of Dol Amroth smiled and put her finger to the last part of the book. I opened the book where she had pointed and there it was:

* * *

**_Mushrooms of the Shire_**_   
A recipe of my own devising, based on a recipe from the North as brought to us by a wayfaring Dúnadan. _

_Makes approximately 5 lbs of mushrooms: _

_60oz of fresh mushrooms   
1/4 cup olive oil   
2/3 cups each red wine vinegar, cider vinegar, balsamic vinegar   
1/3 cup lemon juice   
6 cloves garlic, sliced   
3 Tbsp dried basil, or a handful of fresh basil   
salt water Boil the mushrooms for about 10 minutes in salt water, drain and put in storage container. Mix all other ingredients, pour over mushrooms. Cover and store in cool place overnight. _

* * *

"Based on a recipe from the North, as brought to us by a wayfaring Dúnadan" – It was a fairly recent addition to the cookbook of Dol Amroth. A wayfaring Dúnadan – would that be Aragorn, then? I knew from our days in the wilderness that Aragorn was quite handy with the preparation of venison, and he knew everything about the plants and herbs of Middle Earth. 

Involuntarily I smiled at the memory of many campfires and many cold nights in the empty lands of Hollin during the short days of December a year ago.

"For dinner we will have pumpes, mirause of Pelargir and a boar's head. There will be cabbage and sauerkraut to go with it and of course fresh brown bread, with apple butter, as well. It's all prepared and ready to be put on the fire tomorrow morning. The Mistress Samno has sent word that she will have her cook and maids up to give me a hand." Marai said, frowning at this last piece of news.

"Surely you can do with that help?" Lady Míriël asked politely.

"Well, of course I do, my lady, you know how it will be tomorrow. But that cook, the Master Hamweis, he's such a snob. He's learned the trade in Minas Tirith and he looks doon his nose on us country folks. He's unbearable with the girls. Can't have that. Not tomorrow anyways."

"I am sure you will handle it," Míriël told the cook in a soothing voice. "You always do, and magnificently."

"Hrmph," Marai replied with a snort, but I caught a pleased smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Here, and here – have look, Lothíriel," Míri had flicked to the appropriate pages. "Those are traditional dishes served at Mettarë in all of Gondor. I have no idea what they serve in Rohan for mid-winter's day, but it shouldn't be too different, all in all."

Marai raised her eyebrows at that, but wisely did not comment. In her opinion the Rohirrim were bloodthirsty savages. I had been treated to a colourful tale about her view of the wild riders of Rohan only days ago. I suppressed a grin and tried dutifully to read about pumpes and boar's head, which turned out to be virtually impossible, because the writing was so tiny and faded that I barely could make out the separate strokes of the runes.

* * *

**_Pumpes or Balls of Deer in Creamy White Sauce_**_   
An olde timey recipe such as they serve in Minas Tirith on Mettarë._

_Take and boil a good piece of pork, and not too lean, as tender as you may. Then take it up and chop it as small as you may, then take cloves and mace and chop forth withall, and also chop forth raisins of Corinth, then take it and roll it as round as you may, like to small pellets, a two inches about, then lay them on a dish by themselves, then make a good almond milk, and blend it with four of rice and let it boil well, but look that it be quite runny, and at the dressler, lay five pumpes in a dish, and pour the pottage thereon. And if you will, set on every pumpe a flower, over them strew on sugar enough and mace, and serve them forth. And some men make the pellets of veal or beef, but pork is best and fairest _

_1 1/2 lb ground meat   
1/2 tsp salt   
1/2 cup raisins, chopped   
1/4 tsp each cloves and mace_

* * *

**_Mirause of Pelargir_**_   
Original from Pelargir, this version is from **The Miscellany** by Cariadoc of the Bow and Mistress Dendermonde. _

_The people of Pelargir are a refined people who in character and customs are hardly unlike the people of Harondor and skilful with food; they have a dish which they call mirause and prepare it thus: Capons or pullets or pigeons well cleaned and washed they put together on a spit and turn over the hearth until they are half cooked. Then they remove them and cut them in pieces and put them in a pot. Then they chop almonds that have been toasted under warm ashes and cleaned with some cloth. To this they add some bread crumbs lightly toasted with vinegar and juice and pass all this through a strainer. This is all put in the same pot with cinnamon and ginger and a good amount of sugar and left to boil on the coals with a slow fire until it is done, all the time being stirred with a spool so that it does not stick to the pot. _

_A 3 1/4 lb chicken   
3/4 C roasted almonds, chopped fine   
1/4 c breadcrumbs   
Juice from roasting 10.5 oz chicken broth   
1 T vinegar   
1/2 t cinnamon   
1/2 t ginger   
1 T sugar _

* * *

**_Boar's head/Pottage of pork_**_   
Similar to Master Chiquart's recipe as it is wont to be prepared at Pinnath Galen _

_Serves 8 to 16, depending on the other courses _

_2 lbs boneless pork roast   
Approx. 1 quart apple cider   
4 whole cloves   
20 peppercorns   
1/2 tsp sage   
1/4 to 12 cup raisins _

_Brown pork in pot. Put in enough cider to cover, add spices, bring to boil, and allow to simmer for nigh on an hour. _

_If thou hast a boar's head, after simmering, remove boar's head from liquid, and place it in the oven uncovered for nigh on half an hour to acquire the beaste a browne crust._

* * *

At that moment the doors to the kitchen were thrust open and Mel and Númendil entered, their faces flushed, their eyes bright with expectation. 

"Nana, Lothy, Marai. We have the most beautiful tree we ever head. It's that high!" Númendil pointed at the vaulted ceiling. A vital part of the decoration for Mettarë was the decorating of a mountain yew with all kinds of ornaments in honour of Yavanna. This year the boys had been allowed to accompany the servants to select and cut the tree. Apparently the outing had been successful.

"Really? How wonderful!" Míriël smiled at her sons.

Mel was at the side of Marai, giving the cook his sweetest smile, but his eyes were twinkling with mischief. "You are such a wonderful cook, Marai. Ada says you are a miracle. Truly."

The old woman turned around and smiled down at the boy, her face wrinkling like an old, dry apple. "You only want to know what's for sweets tomorrow." She told the boy, but she winked at him. Mel blinked and managed to retain a sweetly innocent expression. Barely.

Númendil sat down on the bench next to me and looked at the old cookbook with interest. "It's true," he whispered. "Mel is always after the tarts. And then he gets sick. You'd think he'd learn, but it's the same every year."

With the same expertise as his mother, he turned the pages for me and pointed, giving me wicked grin. These recipes had been written down in an elegant style with long curling loops and flourishes, and the ink was violet, not black.

* * *

**_Tart on Ember Day_**_   
As it was imparted on me by Cariadoc of the Bow and Mistress Dendermonde. _

_Parboil onions, and sage, and parsley and hew them small, then take good fat cheese, and bray it, and do thereto eggs, and temper it up therewith, and do thereto butter and sugar, and raisyngs of corince, and powder of ginger, and of canel, medel all this well together, and do it in a coffin, and bake it uncovered, and serve it forth. _

**_Berry_****_ Tarts_**_   
From **The Gondorian Huswife**, as handed down by Mistress Gervase late of Minas Tirith. _

_A cherry tart   
Take the fairest cherries you can get, and pick them clean from leaves and stalks; then spread out your coffin as for your pippin tart, and cover the bottom with sugar; then cover the sugar all over with cherries, then cover those cherries with sugar, some sticks of cinnamon, and her and there a clove; then lay in more cherries, and so more sugar, cinnamon and cloves till the coffin be filled up: then cover it, and back it in all points as the codling and pippin tart, and so serve it; and in the same manner you may make tarts of gooseberries, strawberries, raspberries, bilberries, or any other berry whatsoever. _

**_Pear Tarts_**_   
From **The Gondorian Huswife**, as handed down by Mistress Gervase late of Minas Tirith._

_A warden pie, or quince pie   
Take of the fairest and best wardens, and part them, and take out the hard cores on the top, and cut the sharp ends at the bottom; then boil them in white wine and sugar, until the syrup grow thick: then take the wardens from the syrup into a clean dish, and let them cool; then set them into the coffin, and prick cloves in the tops, with whole sticks of cinnamon, and great store of sugar, as for pippins; then cover it, and only reserve a vent hole, so set it in the oven and bake it: when it is baked, draw it forth, and take the first syrup in which the wardens were boiled, and taste it, and if it be not sweet enough, then put in more sugar and some rose-water, and boil it again a little, then pout it in at the vent hole, and shake the pie well; then take sweet butter and rose-water melted; and with it anoint the pie lid all over, and then strew upon it store of sugar, and so set it into the over again a little space, and then serve it up. And in this manner you may also bake quinces. _

**_Apple Tarts_**_   
An olde timey recipe as was often cooked by the Mistress Margaret._

_This tart follows the basic process for the berry tarts as pertaining to the recipe come from Minas Tirith, but with sugar hard to come by this recipe uses honey as can be had from the meadows of the Dor-en-Ernil. _

_For each pie, take   
3 lbs apples, peeled, cored and quartered.   
1 pie shell   
approximately 1/3 of a 1 lb jar of honey   
2 Tbsp sugar   
1 tsp cinnamon   
1/2 tsp cloves _

_Stock oven well and light the fire. Roll pie shell and place in pan, sprinkle bottom of shell with sugar or coat with honey if thou hast no sugar. Put in a layer of apples (enough to cover), sprinkle on half of the cinnamon and cloves. Pour honey over layer. Repeat for second layer. Cover; bake for nigh on an hour. Serve forth. _

* * *

My eyes drifted across the flowing, violet letters. I could almost smell the baking tarts – no, I blinked, shaking my head, feeling confused. Then I realized that I did in fact, smell baking tarts. 

Even as we had talked about the details of the meal that was to be served tomorrow and the various details of the celebrations which had to be taken care of yet, Marai had finished the pies and tarts and had slipped them into the oven to keep the bread company. Without, I realized, taking only one single look at this book. Marai knew all her recipes by heart.

Now the kitchen was filled with warmth from the hearth, the fire and the oven and the mingling fragrance of stew and the baking bread and cakes. Mel raised his head and wrinkled his nose. He sniffed appreciatively. "Apple. Pears. Cranberry. And cheese. Oh, goody!"

Míri frowned at her youngest. "Only," she told the small boy sternly. "Only, I repeat, if you eat your spinach and your cabbage first. Do you hear me? And only thin slices. One each. I will not have a repetition of the mess you made last year."

Mel hung his head. "Yes, Nana. Of course, Nana."

Míriël turned to me. "I have to go and check the rooms."

I nodded, scrambling to my feet, although I felt my head buzzing with the morning's kitchen lore. I think Míri noticed. Anyway, she smiled and added: "Could you keep the boys company for a few hours? You can go and watch how the hall is being decked out."

I nodded, relief flooding me. Míri is the nicest woman I know. "Of course I can. Thank you!"

With Mel tugging at my hand, we left the kitchen to have a look at the Great Hall and the Yavanna-tree.

* * *

**A/N: **I hope ff . net doesn't take this off because of the spelling in the recipes. I thought it made such a wonderful atmosphere…. 


	76. Midwinter Weal, Plenty, Peace, and Pleas...

**76. Midwinter Weal, Plenty, Peace, and Pleasure, Blessings of the Valar, Boons of Eru**

Mel and Númendil escorted me to the Great Hall. Actually, Mel tried more or less to tug me along, as I was not walking quite fast enough to suit his excitement.

When we entered the Great Hall, I did not quite know where to look.

Everywhere in the room servants and people from the town of Dol Amroth were hard at work decorating hall with garlands of holly, ivy, mistletoe and other evergreens. The three large chandeliers had been polished and set with new, expensive white candles. On the long wooden table that had been placed to the right side of the room thick, cream coloured candles had been placed on earthenware plates and wreathed with rowan, yew and holly. Between the two large columns at the centre of the hall a young yew tree had been put up, planted in an earthenware container. The tree was a symbol to honour Yavanna, the Valar who had called the two trees to life, who had first given light to Arda. The yew's red berries were shining brightly from between the glossy, dark green needle-like leaves. Here and there small white candles had been placed among the twigs of the yew and teardrops of hand-blown glass had been hung from the tips of the branches.

The mantles of the two large fire places of the Great Hall were already wreathed in garlands of yew, rowan and holly, with a bunch of mistletoe at the centre, held in place by trailing lengths of ivy. In each fire place a huge log of oak wood was prepared for the next day. The front of each log was etched with an elvish rune symbolizing Yavanna. Holly and branches of firs and pines had artistically piled up around the Mettarë logs. Mettarë, the last day of the year, mid-winter's day, is the symbol for the turning point in the darkness of the winter. Light and life will return to the world, and when Oromë and his hunters had passed over the fields during the night between Mettarë and Yestarë, the fields would bear fruit again in the following year.

Mel and Númendil patiently explained the significance of each detail of the ornaments in the hall to me, their eyes glowing with excitement, their cheeks flushed. Mettarë and Yestarë were definitely their favourite feast days.

I felt as if I had been transported into a world of fairy tales. A strange feeling, if you consider that I had been more or less transported into a world of fairy tales. But listening to the bits and pieces of Mettarë-lore, as they were told to me by the children, it was difficult not to be caught up in the magic of the feast.

Rowan, yew, holly and mistletoe to ward off evil wights and spirits. Bowls of porridge to be placed on the window sill to offer food to the beneficial house wights and the passing souls of the dead, the offering of a sheaf of grain to Nahar, Oromë's great steed…

These customs seemed so pagan, so heathen, and so extremely strange to me. Yet I have to admit that I was touched deeply by the preparations of the feast. Once again I was struck by how strangely more real, poignant life in Middle Earth was. Back in Germany Christmas had been more of a chore than a feast day. All too often Christmas had been reduced to stressful days of buying presents and planning on which day which part of the family could be accommodated with a visit or an invitation. The magic, the feeling of mystery and peace, was more often than not reduced to fleeting moments on the side-lines of social life.

Here it was different.

So different!

Mel, Númendil and I had sat down on the wooden bench that ran along the length of the right wall of the great hall. Here we could sit and watch the proceedings without being in the way.

The Great Hall of Dol Amroth is on the first floor of the castle, above the entrance hall.

You have to pass through the entrance hall to get to the staircase leading to the upper floors of the castle, so you enter the Great Hall actually from the back. It is a very high hall, opening to the roof beams. The vaulted ceiling looks like the hull of a great ship and it is made of beautifully carved almost black wood. The wooden structure of the roof rests on three great Doric stone pillars, which divide the hall in two sides. The left side, seen from the entrance of the hall, is the one with the windows, facing to the south-east, across the Bay of Cobas.

The precious easy chairs which are set up there for sitting and talking comfortably on other days had been removed. My lessons in the management of the household in Dol Amroth had entailed an explanation about carpentry and furniture, too. The reason why there is only little furniture about, and especially not very many chairs and stools, is simply because they are very expensive to make. The few easy chairs of Dol Amroth had been made after elvish models and are counted among the most precious pieces of furniture in the castle, with the shelves, armchairs and desks in the Prince's library. That's why the easy chairs had been removed from the hall for the festivities. In their place several smaller tables with wooden benches at each side had been put up there for the feast, leaving enough room at the front of the hall for a dancing and making music.

On the right side of the Great Hall the red carpet – another precious piece of furniture – had been removed as well, to keep it safe. Instead woven mats of straw had been put on the floor on both sides of the Hall. Tomorrow morning fresh herbs would be scattered on those mats, to clear the air.

But back to the right side of the Hall. No windows there, but two great fire places. One at each end of the room, but on the right hand side. The one at the end of the hall shares the chimney of the kitchen, which is situated one floor below. In the corner behind the fire place there is a small door that leads to a separate staircase and then right down to the kitchen, so that the servants can bring up the food when it's still hot. The fire place near the entrance of the hall connects to the Royal apartments, the suite of rooms used by Míri and Ada – or by the King and Queen, when they visit Dol Amroth. It is terribly expensive and difficult to get a castle warm during winter. Therefore every fire place is strategically placed to keep more than one room warm. My room, for example, has no fire place at all, but it is above the Royal apartments, so it does not get too cold.

The long table, which usually stands to the right side of the Great Hall, had been extended. Now it ran along the length of the hall, and had been placed in front of the long wooden bench between the two fire places. The designers of castles are really thrifty. Most everything is designed to be effective and not to waste either space or wood. At the head of the long table to extravagantly carved, high backed chairs indicated where Prince Imrahil and the Lady Míriël would be sitting tomorrow. The places of honour, the only ones with separate chairs. For everyone else there were only wooden benches.

I sat and stared. I realized that I was still not quite used to living in a castle. Even after weeks of living here, I felt overwhelmed at the sheer size of the hall and the grandeur of it.

Mel moved a little closer to me. He tilted his head up, his dark grey eyes filled with sadness. "Last year," he whispered, "last year we went with our older brothers to get the Yavanna-tree."

Númendil clenched his teeth on my other side and stared straight ahead, not turning the head or moving at all. He was keeping his feelings to himself. He would grow into a stern man, I thought. Stern, but fair.

Mel was a lot softer. I sighed. "Do you miss them?"

Mel nodded and hid his face against my side. It had not been possible to recover the dead bodies of the two dead sons of the Prince of Dol Amroth. They were buried deeply under the rubble that had come down from the Ephel Duath with the eruption of the Orodruin and the crumbling of the Morannon. That makes bidding farewell difficult.

Míri and Imrahil were still struggling with the loss, keeping up appearances in public and probably having difficulties with talking about their real feelings in private. And both Mel and Númendil were still little enough to need their parents strong, and not broken down with grief.

I suppressed another sigh.

"They are with Eru now," I said softly. "They are at peace. It's o.k. that you miss them. It's o.k. that you are sad. But not too much. They want you to be happy."

I felt the small boy snuggle up against me. It was the strangest feeling, his small, warm body seeking comfort from me of all persons. I felt my throat tighten up and tears burning in my eyes. Sauron's eternal darkness had been averted. But at what cost. It would be a long time until the remnants of darkness had passed away from the people of Gondor and Rohan and their families.

* * *

I woke early the next morning. It was still dark outside. Today was the longest and darkest day of the year, and even here, at the westernmost outcrop of Arda the day would be short, gloomy and cold.

I slipped out of the covers and quickly made my way to the washing bowl and ewer. Ini had come into the room noiselessly and brought the fresh, hot washing water, leaving just as soundlessly, almost like a ghost. Wisps of steam were curling in the air above the ewer. As I stood in front of the chest of drawers, pouring a little hot water over a sponge, and shivering like a leaf in the wind, I noticed that the glass window of my room was covered with frost. It was traced with the most fantastic designs of frostwork. Delicate. Beautiful. Freezing.

I washed quickly. As I brushed my teeth, I realized that I would have to look into a replacement for it soon. I shuddered. The tiniest brushes that could be had here were not really what I would call hygienically adequate. I'd probably have to settle for frayed birch twigs or something like that. And I should give some serious thought to the question of what could be used as tooth paste, I mused. The Lady Elaine would be able to come up with something. Lemons are good for gum and teeth… and the toothpaste I had preferred on earth had been one with herbs.

I brushed my hair, yelping now and again, when the brush got caught in the tangles of the night. It was a fumble to gather my hair into something resembling a bun. I would have to redo it in front of the mirror in the drawing room, apart from a small mirror in the royal apartments the only one in Dol Amroth. Mirrors are expensive. Glass is, too. By now I knew that my room was pure luxury with the glass window looking out across the ocean.

Dol Amroth is still the richest province of Gondor. Generations of princes have carefully managed their fiefdom, preserved its wealth and increased it, year by year. So Dol Amroth sports more glass windows and more extravagant pieces of furniture than any other castle or mansion of Gondor. Apart from the Citadel of Minas Tirith, of course.

I dressed in a dark green gown of a heavy, soft fabric which had been woven from threads of different shades of green. The neckline was embroidered with golden thread. The sleeves flared out, etched in the same golden design. Green silk stockings went with it and my leather slippers matched it quite well.

The gown moulded itself to my body. Heavy, warm, but still elegant. I slid my hands down my sides. I had gained a little weight, but only a little. I was still too thin, but in this gown it was actually alright. I felt beautiful.

For a wistful moment my thoughts went to Éomer, and how his dark eyes would light up with those amber highlights if he could see me like this.

I pressed my lips together. Damn. I missed him. I had never been parted from a lover – no, he was not even a lover, thanks to Middle-earth propriety… – for such a long time. I missed him still. It was a tiny, quiet ache in my heart. A little longing that never really slept.

I guess that's what people call love.

I left my room and softly closed the door behind me.

* * *

I went straight to the kitchen. Míri was already there, talking with Mistress Marai. When I entered, she turned around and her eyes lit up. She gave me warm smile. "Look, how beautiful you are today!" She hugged me and kissed my cheeks.

When she released me, I returned the compliment. "You are looking splendid, too! Not that you ever look not beautiful. But this…" I trailed off and blinked.

The Lady Míriël of Dol Amroth wore a long gown of a deep violet colour. The neckline and the tight sleeves were stitched with silver, and there was a silver train flaring out at the back of the dress. She wore silver jewellery with shining amethysts. Her pearly skin and her noble, Númenorean looks – black hair, clear grey eyes – were enough to drive an ordinary woman into despair. But being friends with Arwen, Míri and Éowyn I am getting used to living in despair.

Míri smiled at me. "I hope that my lord will like this. It's new. Darla had it sent to me only a week ago."

I nodded. The art of Darla of the Golden Scissors was unmistakable in the gown. I will never understand how someone can take a piece of cloth and make something like that out of it. That's as far beyond my comprehension as nuclear physics or the magicks of the _istari_.

Míri turned back to the Mistress Marai, who was intimidating in a clean grey apron that covered a sweeping dark grey gown. "I think that's all. We'll have the Wassail cup for midnight, and then try and gently shoo the guests to their bed or on their way back home. Now, do you have some tírithel ready? It will be two hours until the first guests arrive, and I need something hot now."

"Of course, my lady. And for the young lady, too?" Marai asked me politely.

"Yes, please." I replied gratefully.

"How long are you up and at work already?" I asked, when Míri and I were seated at the far end of the huge kitchen table, as out of the way of the ten cooks and maids and kitchen-boys as possible. Míri sipped her tírithel and covered a small yawn. "Since four o'clock. Mettarë is always exhausting. Somehow mid-summer's day is always easier. People are not as hungry for warmth and food then. And more easygoing about things." She smiled. "And I still miss the snow… I was born close to the Ered Nimrais, and we almost always had snow for Mettarë." She emptied her cup and rose to her feet. "Now we've got to get going. We have to be in the Great Hall to greet any early guests. Just do what I do, and don't worry. These are our people." I nodded mutely, my heart beat quickening. I'm not the most sociable person. I'll have to learn to be one, however. As a queen – my heart skipped a beat – you have to be. Sociable and at ease with all kinds of people.

* * *

The fires were already lit in the great hall, although the candles were still out. The tables had been set with apple butter and orange marmalade. There were bowls with apples and nuts and jugs of water and beakers. The alcoholic beverages would be served individually, as a means to control consumption. Baskets with fresh, warmed Ealishd's bread were placed on the tables at regular intervals. The hall was filled with a fragrance made up of freshly baked bread, pine and herbs. The straw mats had been strewn with pine needles, sage and thyme, and Marai had told me that the hall had been "cleaned" of evil influences with incense sticks made of the same beneficial herbs.

Prince Imrahil was already there, standing at the windows and looking thoughtfully out across the bay. Mel and Númendil, dressed like their father in the dark blue livery of Dol Amroth, were seated on the wooden bench next to the first fire place, looking a still a little sleepy.

Imrahil turned towards us with a smile. His light hair had been braided at the nape of his neck, showing off the elegant lines of his head. Under his uniform he wore a silver shirt of finest silk. I had to stop myself from saying "wow".

"I am blessed with two beautiful women," Imrahil told us and kissed Míri lightly on the lips. Her eyes lit up and she smiled at her husband tenderly. They had been married for twenty-seven years this year. I sighed. Would I manage to have such a loving, enduring marriage with Éomer, too? It was so wonderful to see that marriage for life can really work. The once and for all kind of marriage, I mean.

* * *

The first guests to arrive were the mayors of the fishing village of Dol Amroth and the town of Dol Amroth. Master Gwaeren and his stout, sweet wife, Mistress Fiona, and Master Samno with his somewhat imperious Mistress Nell, all of them dressed to the nines and beaming happily.

Ini, dressed in servant's grey, etched with the blue and silver of the livery of Dol Amroth, offered Ealishd's bread and cups of tírithel to us after proper greetings had been exchanged. I bit into the piece of bread, slathered with apple butter. I knew that it had been baked yesterday, but it had been warmed lightly, and the apple butter was melting softly on top of it.

I almost sighed with pleasure. The bread was so good. Rich from the barm ale, and firm in texture. The apple butter was fruity and tinged with cinnamon and cloves. For a moment the conversation passed me by completely. I simply enjoyed the taste of bread and butter.

Soon after the mayors had arrived, the musicians entered the hall. They were clad in the traditional harpers' garb of blues, but on the front of their tunics the silver swan of Dol Amroth was stitched. Dol Amroth has always been proud to have the best harpers of Gondor, and excellent singers and drummers, too. They claimed the first small table on the left side of the hall, in front of the space that had been left empty for dancing. They started out right away, with some lilting melodies. The festive atmosphere of the hall became cheerful and merry in next to no time.

Once the musicians were there, a steady stream of guests began pouring in.

The guests were – as Míri had told me – the poorest of village, town and surrounding farms and the dignitaries of Dol Amroth, the mayor, the members of the town council and the judges. But there were only few nobles. Lord Anmir, the captain of the guard, Gawin, the Prince's squire, Amdirion, the Prince's page, a few lords and ladies of lesser nobility that lived in the area, the three ladies in waiting of Lady Míriël, the timid blonde Lady Eiriën, and the dark haired sisters, Lady Lalaith and Lasbelin. I thought the herald, Falanyon, was also of noble birth, but I was not sure of which line he was. I was still confused about the make-up of a noble house-hold and the different blood lines of Gondorian nobility. Rohan is a lot simpler. The heads of the five provinces can trace their blood lines to a male member of the royal family. The lesser nobles are connected to Rohirric royalty only by marriage and through female relatives. That's chauvinistic, but it's easy to remember. Not so in Gondor. Women have been on the throne in Gondor, and they may inherit title and property if there are no sons. In Rohan title and property would go to the brother of the father, along with the munt, the guardianship for the woman.

At noon a winter storm was blowing up outside, driving rain and sleet against the windows of the Great Hall. Inside, the first couples were dancing, and the ginger beef soup was served.

I gasped when I swallowed the first spoonful. That was hot. Hot. And spicy, too. And delicious. When my bowl was empty, I thought my ears were glowing with a brilliant red colour, so hot did I feel from the soup. Mel was dutifully occupied with some of the spinach toast, looking pretty miserable. By now the Great Hall was full of people, men and women, and many children. Although it was clearly apparent how poor some of the guests were from their thin and strained appearance and their shabby, threadbare clothing, all of them seemed to be healthy and clean. Times had been hard, and with so many widows and orphans, it was almost impossible to keep poverty at bay in the fiefdom. Prince Imrahil did what he could, but he had an army to keep up and his own household at the castle to keep, too. But baths were fairly cheep in the bathing houses of the fiefdom, once a day there was free soup for the poorest of the poor to be had at the houses of healing in each village and town and Imrahil had introduced "a widow's penny", a small pension for the widows of the war. It was not much. But it was something.

And this day was something, too.

The day went by with eating and drinking and dancing and singing. Outside the winter winds were icy and piercing. Inside it was blissfully warm and cosy. After I had greeted the guests with Imrahil and Míri, I was very much left to my own devices. For a time I sat with Míri's ladies, but then Mel and Númendil insisted on dancing with me. Afterwards we sat down close to the musicians, so that we did not miss any ballad or poem or story that was presented in the course of the day. Also, sitting close to the musicians ensured that we had always lots to eat and drink, because the harpers and singers were always the first to be served after the Prince at the head of the long table.

The few hours of dim sunlight passed quickly, barely noticed by the celebrating crowd in the Great Hall of Dol Amroth. I was astonished when I realized that the candles had been lit and the trumpet call for dinner was sounded.

Dinner was the most formal part of the celebration.

The Lord Prince and the Lady of Dol Amroth sat at the head of the long table. Númendil and Meluir sat to the right, I to the left of them. Servants hurried from table to table filling cups, goblets and glasses with wine and mulled cider.

When everyone had been served, the Prince of Dol Amroth rose to his feet and lifted his heavy golden goblet to the assembled guests.

"Midwinter Weal, plenty, peace, and pleasure, blessings of the Valar, boons of Eru!"

The Prince called out the traditional Mettarë blessing in his clear, cool voice.

Then everyone else got to their feet, too, the lords and ladies, the musicians, the fishers, the dignitaries, the beggars and the widows. Everyone raised their cups in answer to the Prince's toast. A choir of many voices, old and young, rough and melodic, tired and happy, rang out and filled the hall from the corners to the rafters: "Midwinter Weal, plenty, peace, and pleasure, blessings of the Valar, boons of Eru!"

I felt a big smile on my face. This was a wonderful feast. It meant so much to the people. Fun and warmth, being close to each other, celebrating that the year was done, and done well.

When everyone had settled down again, a huge boar's head was carried on an immense silver platter. "In earlier ages they had a living boar that was chased through the hall. When it was finally caught, holy oaths were sworn on the boar and then it was killed and roasted on the spot," Míri told me. "I am glad that we have abandoned this custom, however. I don't think the decorations were the same after the boar's chase." She looked at the Yavanna tree and the many garlands and wreaths adorning the columns and rafters of the hall.

When a servant put a slice of boar's meat on her plate, she grinned. "And this symbolic holy boar tastes just as well."

I inhaled the rich scent of the meat. "I'm sure it does!"

Imrahil smiled at me. "It should. It grew fat on oaks and chestnuts in the hills of Tarnost. I killed it myself on the hunt a week ago."

The boar's meat was indeed delicious. It tasted fruity of the apples and raisins it had been cooked with, slightly tinged with sage. But the capon of Pelargir, which I tried after the boar's meat, was savoury, too.

"Oaths will be taken at midnight, when the Cup of Wassail will be drunk." Imrahil remarked, returning to the subject of Mettarë customs.

"What's that," I asked. "Wassail?"

"It is an ancient custom of asking for blessing and health for the new year. It is a heated mixture of wine, ale and cider, touched with spices that is served in a huge goblet. Everyone takes a sip. The dregs are taken up with bits of toast; the bits are then placed in the gardens, at the feet of apple trees, mostly, to ensure a rich harvest in the coming year." Imrahil explained.

"It is also drunk to honour our beloved dead," Míri added in a low voice, her eyes brimming with tears. "A cup of it is placed with the porridge for the passing souls of the dead and the sheaf of grains for Oromë's horse outside in the courtyard."

I saw how Imrahil's moved his hand under the table, probably squeezing Míri's hand, comforting her. His light eyes darkened with shared pain.

Luckily at that point the tarts made their appearance to the absolute delight of Mel who actually exclaimed at the sight of cheese tart, cranberry tart, apple pie and pear pie.

Míri sighed and turned her attention to her youngest child. "Meluir, do you remember what I told you yesterday?"

Mel nodded. "I did eat that ugly spinach stuff."

Míri raised her eyebrows at her recalcitrant son. "And what else did I say?"

"Thin slices, not get sick," Mel mouthed around a mouthful of cranberry tart.

Míri sighed and held up her hands in defeat.

Half an hour later I helped Mel to vanish discreetly from the hall and vomit in a quiet corner. I cleaned his small, pale face; valiantly maintaining a straight face, barely keeping from being sick myself – my stomach was sympathetic to the noises of retching. Mel's room was next to the royal apartments. I told him to wait and hurried back into the hall to tell his mother and his nurse that I would get him to bed. Míri fixed me with a gimlet eye, but I only shrugged. I would not betray Mel's little secret. In my opinion a little overindulgence in cakes once a year is not too bad. Especially if you are only five years old.

Mel's room was comfortably warm. The fire was down to a heap of glowing embers. I stocked up the fire for the night without even thinking about it. Then I helped Mel. He was so small and skinny. And tired. He barely managed to wash and brush his teeth with a little frayed birch twig. But in the end he was clean and clad in a nightshirt of white linen.

I put him to bed and kissed him goodnight. I think he was asleep before I even left the room.

* * *

I closed the door as silently as I could. For a moment I remained standing in the twilight of the corridor behind the royal apartments. Although the walls were thick and there were no windows here, only small, shuttered slits, I could here the rushing of the waves and the wailing of the winter winds outside. It was a stormy night. I could almost imagine Oromë to come riding down from Aman up in the heavens, racing across Arda on his great steed Nahar, and gathering in the souls of the dead to lead them up to Eru's halls.

It was a wild night.

And it was almost midnight.

I hurried back to the Great Hall.

I was just in time to take my place next to Míri and Númendil.

It was indeed a huge goblet. A huge, heavy, golden goblet.

"In Rohan they use drinking horns," Númendil whispered to me. Númendil would accompany me next year to Rohan, to become King Éomer's page. Everything Rohirric was fascinating to him since Imrahil had told him of the plan. I raised my eyebrows and gulped. Drinking from a horn? That did not sound very appealing. As it was I was glad that the wassail cup was passed along according to rank and birth. In other words, first Imrahil drank from it, then Míri, then Númendil and then me. I know I'm a sissy. But still, the thought of drinking from the same cup as more than a hundred people…

Imrahil raised the cup high, holding it with both hands. "Midwinter Weal, plenty, peace, and pleasure, blessings of the Valar, boons of Eru. Health to the people of Dol Amroth and peace to our dead heroes."

"Health and peace," the toast was echoed throughout the room.

Imrahil carefully tilted the goblet and took a deep swallow. Then he passed the goblet to Míri.

"Health and peace," she said her voice shaking. But she held the cup firmly and drank deeply.

It was time to let go. "Health and peace," Númendil repeated. His mother helped him hold the cup and drink. When he passed the cup to me, he whispered, "Watch out, it's heavy."

I nodded gratefully and braced myself. It would not do to spill the holy cup. It was heavy.

With my heart pounding I raised the goblet high in the air.

For a moment the room around me blurred, but then it was suddenly clear and poignant as a realist oil painting. The many faces all round me, old and young, happy and sad. My new family. The noble and proud features of Prince Imrahil. Beautiful and kind Míri. The musicians. The dancers with their flushed cheeks and bright eyes. The garlands of holly, rowan and ivy, the flickering fires and the golden light of the many candles. And more: the smell of food and drink and fire, the noise of the wind and the sea.

I held the goblet high in the air. My voice was clear and ringing, as I said the ancient words of wassail: "Health and peace!"

In my heart I added: I swear, I will do my best for this Arda, my new home, and my new family. I swear. With all my heart and all my life.

I handed the cup to Elrohir, who smiled at me with sparkling grey eyes. He in turn passed the cup to Elladan, and Elladan gave it to the Mayor of the town of Dol Amroth, Master Samno.

I watched as the goblet circulated the room, again and again blessed with the traditional words.

It was Mettarë.

And quite suddenly, surrounded by the warmth of the people of Dol Amroth and their prayers and their blessings, I understood the meaning of the holiday. When the nights are the longest, and the days are the shortest, it is time to offer thanks to the Valar and the One for the passing of the year and to ask their blessing for the year to come: "Midwinter Weal, plenty, peace, and pleasure, blessings of the Valar, boons of Eru."

It was Mettarë.

And I was happy.

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you are still with me. Let me know if you liked this chapter. The next chapter will see some spring sunshine. And soon we'll be back at Minas Tirith… 


	77. Poppies on the Pelennor

**A/N: **This one's for Mija. They **are** multiplying.

* * *

**77. Poppies on the Pelennor**

When you are busy, time just flies.

I was kept so busy that sometimes was not sure if I even remembered my name. As the weeks went by, I grew more comfortable with the servants and the intricacies of managing a noble household. As the weeks went by, and my proficiency in reading and writing the different versions of runes increased, I found myself surrounded by ever increasing heaps of scrolls, bits and pieces of parchment and the heavy tomes that go by the designation of "book" around here.

It was an evening at the end of March, the year 3020 that saw me sitting at my desk in the library of Dol Amroth. I eyed the chaos on my desk and half-heartedly moved one heap of papers and stuff – history of Gondor – next to another, even more substantial heap – history and culture of Rohan. Then I turned to a third, slightly smaller heap. _The elvish languages and some books about the history of the elves._

I heaved a sigh and turned to Imrahil who was sitting at his desk. My adoptive father had been watching my feeble efforts at ordering my desk with a faint grin. "They are multiplying," I declared. "There is no other solution to this riddle. These books and scrolls and pieces of parchment – they are breeding. Every time I sit down to work, there is more of this mess on my desk." I gestured helplessly at the desk. Somewhere in there had to be my inkpot. Hopefully screwed shut tightly. The vision of those heaps collapsing, the inkpot exploding all over this was sickening. Most of the books and scrolls that I used in my efforts to familiarize myself with the history, society and culture of my new home was irreplaceable, invaluable.

There are no printing presses in Middle-earth. Almost every single one of the books and scrolls on my desk were absolutely unique. There were only very few books that existed several times, most of them elvish books. Thinking about the destruction of any one of the precious writings that littered my desk made my blood run cold.

Not for the first time I tried to imagine just how a printing press worked. I knew of so many things that could be useful here. I pressed my lips together. But keeping the advice of Sir Karl Popper, a famous philosopher of the 20th century, firmly in my mind – the bit about the unforeseen consequences of any action, apart from the consequences you desire – I had not tried to introduce anything new to Middle-earth. My responsibility about my knowledge of the war had passed, but I was still responsible for everything else that I knew. And from the history of earth I knew only too well how easily an innovation that was introduced to help people could go wrong. Very, very wrong. But a printing press. It would be so wonderful to have a printing press. I was fairly sure that if I told Gimli what I knew about the concept of a printing press, he would be able to construct one. I sighed, recalling the many evenings during the winter when the crabbed writing of some long dead scribe had almost driven me nuts. No, I thought. Without asking a wise one, elf or wizard, for advice, I would not mention printing presses to anyone. On the other hand I had no compunctions about trying to improve the icky white paste that went by the name of tooth paste around here.

But there's a difference. The system with scribes and parchment works, even if it is most annoying at times. I don't think that the slimy white-grey substance that is sometimes used as tooth paste in Rohan and Gondor does work – except as possibly as poison. And unfortunately I have seen how healers work on teeth in Gondor.

Poor Helmichis. I shuddered with the memory. Helmichis had grown a wisdom tooth. At 19 that is not unusual. From what I know about teeth it is also not unusual that the tooth went bad. They made him drink some strong liquor. They had some incense that was supposed to make him relax. I would not have been able to relax at the sight of those huge forceps either.

Two men had held Helmichis in place. At least it was the healer of Dol Amroth, a grey haired chap called Master Lalf that did the job and not the smith, which is the rule in the villages.

The forceps went in Helmichis' mouth. The healer went red in the face with the effort. Then there was a sickening crunch and a wet, slimy popping noise, the healer stumbled backwards, the forceps held high. Helmichis yelled bloody murder and vomited blood and pus and other obnoxious things onto the floor.

I would talk to the Lady Elaine about devising a real tooth paste when we passed through Tarnost on our way to Minas Tirith in a few days' time. Definitely.

That was actually the reason for my sitting here and moving my papers back and forth on my desk. I had to put the papers away. My time in Dol Amroth was almost over. At the beginning of April, Víressë, we would set out for Minas Tirith. In May, Lótessë, Éowyn, would be married in Osgiliath. I would stay with Éowyn or Arwen until it was time for me to travel to Edoras in August, Úrimë, for my wedding in September, Yavannië. When I had arrived in Dol Amroth last autumn, I had thought the long months of autumn and winter would never go by. Now they seemed to have vanished in the blink of an eye.

Time is a strange thing. It can go painfully slow and rush by like rapids of a river at the same time. At times I had had the feeling that the long months of autumn and winter would never go by. I had missed Éomer so much that thinking about him, longing for him and missing him had turned into a constant ache in my heart. At other times I had been horrified how quickly the time passed, especially when I realized painfully just how slow and feeble my progress in Rohirric, tengwar and sword fighting was. There simply was not enough time to learn everything that I thought necessary to know for me to become a good queen for Rohan and its people.

At that thought my heart sped up.

My brief respite was over. Now I had to go back into the real world. However deficient my knowledge was, I had to try and make do with it. My stomach knotted with the cold fear of not knowing enough, not being up to what would be asked of me. I clenched my teeth and firmly pushed those thoughts away from me. There was no sense in mulling over the many areas where my knowledge was still lacking or virtually non-existent. I had made it through Moria. I could finally read tengwar. I had made it here, I would make it again.

I rose to my feet and began to put the books and scrolls back on the shelves and in the drawers where they belonged. Outside the sky was grey with low clouds and a brisk wind indicated that another spring storm was on its way, blowing in from the West. A servant entered and lit the large chandelier that was suspended from the ceiling.

Finally my desk was empty. Only the ink pot, my rather mangled quill and my journal were left on the dark gleaming wood.

I sat down again, opening the inkpot.

Somehow I had found the time over the winter to write down my story again and continue the tale with an account of my days here at Dol Amroth. I had left a little space at the end of each entry so I would be able to add things later if something came up. I have no idea why I took such care to write down my strange story. Or for whom I was writing it. Perhaps it was just a cheap form of therapy. It soothed my agitated thoughts.

* * *

**_Wednesday, 25th of March, Súlimë, 3020 of the third age_**

In two days we'll be leaving for Minas Tirith. We will be travelling with a proper entourage, so we will need about fifteen days to get from Dol Amroth to Minas Tirith. We should reach it on the 11th. If all goes well – that is, if the weather stays good and there are no unforeseeable difficulties, like an attack by some orcs or similar nonsense.

Imrahil has to be in Minas Tirith for the spring session of the High Council. The kafuffle about Harondor is about to go up in a fountain of sh... that will go as high as the ceiling of the Hall of Merethrond or the throne hall of Gondor. I guess I should start praying that they will keep talking and arguing this year and only go to war next year.

Míri and I have to get my dowry together. I will spend weeks with the Lady Darla of the Golden Scissors. She will give me her famous hard look and say that she had expected me to add weight. I will wilt under her censorious glance. Then she will get to work, using just a little more fabric than necessary in the hope that I will get my curves back when I have born my first child. I guess I will. Probably sooner if I am not forced to keep up my sword training.

At the beginning of May Éowyn will marry Faramir. Everyone will be there. It will be wonderful to see everyone again. I hope that Merry and Pippin will make it. I hope even more that Merry will stay for my wedding.

I hope, oh, I hope so much! (…)

* * *

I turned around and looked back at the red walls of the town and the castle of Dol Amroth. It was early in the morning. A cool, clear morning in spring. I think it was the first morning without mist swirling up thick and white from the ocean. Gulls were wheeling in the light blue sky above the castle. I inhaled deeply. The sound and the smell of the sea were all around me. Suddenly I felt all shivery inside. It was time to say goodbye. The short time when I had called Dol Amroth my home was already over.

Mimi must have felt me tense up in reaction to my emotions. The Meara whickered softly and turned her great white head, gazing at me with her deep, dark eyes. I bent forwards and stroked my hand over her gleaming coat. The warm, strong feeling of her muscles under my fingers made me feel better instantly.

"Are you coming, my lady?" Helmichis asked politely. He would accompany me to Edoras and be the captain of the Queen's guard. Today he had tied back his blond hair in a thick pony tail. His dark, green-brown eyes were calm. The burly young warrior was like a rock – strong, calm, and comfortable. I was grateful that he would accompany me to Edoras. Rhawion would return to Dol Amroth after he had put together the Queen's guard for me at Edoras. It was my right to put my guard together as I wanted it. The shield-maiden's right. But as I was no judge of the abilities of a warrior, it had been decided that Rhawion would oversee this for me. Very appropriate, too. So he would accompany me to Edoras, too.

_Accompany me to Edoras…_

I turned Mimi around and joined the company with Helmichis and Rhawion at my sides.

Númendil would also accompany me to Edoras. He would be Éomer's page, and later his squire. I was so very happy to have him along. By this time I really thought of Númendil and Meluir as my little brothers, and the thought to have Númendil at my side in Edoras comforted me no end. Ini, the shy, dark haired maid-servant would come with me, too.

And - here my heart skipped a beat - I had asked if I could have Sorcha and Solas come with me. I wanted Sorcha to be one of my ladies-in-waiting, and later to help me with any children I might have. Míriël had given the matter some thought and finally decided that it was "more or less acceptable". We had written Sorcha a long letter about it. The answer we would only get when we reached Tarnost in a few days. I was very nervous about this. I wanted to have a friend with me in Edoras. Someone who would tell me exactly what she thought. Gods, I would need Sorcha. To my absolute surprise the Lady Elaine had asked to be my first lady-in-waiting. I knew that Imrahil and Míri had considered asking her, but Elaine had offered before they had had the chance to ask her. I was honoured and awe-struck. With Elaine and Sorcha along, I would be able to make it in Edoras. _And I would get my tooth-paste…_

* * *

In the free city of Edhellond we stayed in the mansion of the mayor. It was a very white, art nouveau kind of villa, very elegant and beautiful. Master Daerion's wife, a very graceful and lithe golden haired woman called Anna. It is said that elvish blood is found in some families of the Bay of Belfalas besides the family of the Prince. Looking at Mistress Anna, I was almost sure that this rumour was true.

But we stayed only for one night in Edhellond, eager to use the good weather as long as it lasted.

* * *

We reached Tarnost on a rainy day. It was not cold, only grey and wet and riding along the river Ringló I felt as if I could hear the world around me inhaling and growing with the slowly returning warmth and life of spring. The fields at the sides to the Ringló were freshly tilled and the reddish earth exuded a powerful fragrance. I tasted it at the back of my mouth. It was a rich, humid taste. Spring is near, it said. Spring is near, said the many shoots and small flowers at the sides of the road in the newly awakened grass.

It was almost invigorating to ride through the soft rain of spring towards the high grey battlements of the fortress and town of Tarnost.

Almost. By the time I was finally in a guest room somewhere on the second floor of the castle of Tarnost and in a hot tub, I was frozen to my bones. At the end I had barely felt the reins in my hands. Now I gasped as I slowly lowered myself into the wooden tub that was filled with clean, hot water. The feeling of hot water was almost painful to my frozen legs and hands.

Finally I was able to relax in the hot water. Ini set about washing my hair. Up until now I had always insisted doing this myself. Today I fell asleep under her gentle ministrations.

* * *

The next morning Sorcha came to the castle of Tarnost to give us her answer.

We had taken over the study of the Lady Elaine for the talk. Elaine and Míri would do the talking. They knew what Sorcha would have to do, should she agree to take on the job. It was as it would be yet for some time to come: Lothíriel, shut the hell up, listen closely and learn.

I prayed that Sorcha would agree.

A very prim, brown haired servant finally led Sorcha into the room.

Sorcha was dressed in her best clothes, a green dress and a brown apron, a brown kertch covering her hair, the black shawl of a widow covering her shoulders. She was just as plump as I remembered her, her eyes were bright green and twinkling. She winked at me. I almost sighed with relief. She would do it! I was sure of it! A weight was lifted from my heart.

We welcomed Sorcha, she curtsied prettily. Tea was served. Míri started talking when I was still too dizzy with relief to understand a word of what they were saying.

When I had my feelings under control, Elaine was talking to Sorcha. "You have to understand that it is a little unusual for you to become a lady-in-waiting for a queen, as you are not of noble birth. But Lothíriel will need an able seamstress and later someone who is good with children. And there is also her unusual background to be taken into account. She will have need of people in her household she can trust."

Sorcha nodded. "I understand, my lady. You can trust me. You can be sure of that."

Míri smiled. I could see in her smile that she approved of Sorcha. I felt an answering smile creep up on my face. I sighed happily and allowed my shoulders to sag. "Very well. Sorcha, you will accompany Lothíriel to Edoras as one of her ladies-in-waiting. It would be good if you could stay with us already in May, for the Lady Éowyn's wedding. We will stay either at Minas Tirith or at Osgiliath. You may take your daughter with you. When she gets older she can be trained as a handmaiden or she could be apprenticed as a seamstress. We'll find a solution. Could you manage that?"

Sorcha had risen to her feet and curtsied deeply. "Of course, my lady. I could come with you at once, should you desire me to. And thank you for allowing me to take my daughter with me. I promise she will be no trouble, my lady."

"I know she won't," Elaine said and smiled at the stout young woman in front of her. "But you should have time to set your affairs to rights. May will be good enough. For the time being I will be with Lothíriel and Ini is turning out very well as a handmaiden."

Elaine turned to me and smiled. "We can be really grateful that you are so undemanding because of your origin." I raised my eyebrows at that comment, but I did not really know what to reply to that. For a noble lady of Gondor I **was **probably undemanding. Simply because I still felt way too strange to allow myself to be washed, dressed, waited upon and fussed with.

However the mentioning of my background made me think hard.

I realized that Imrahil, Míri and for some bizarre reason the Lady Elaine as well (perhaps because she was curious about earth?) were taking a lot of care at assembling my household. They were also departing considerably from customs to ensure that I would have people I trusted and people that could help me around when I moved to Edoras. When I was ready to depart for Edoras in August, I would have a household of ladies-in-waiting, a secretary, a herald, guards and servants that would probably still be a lot smaller than that of the usual noble lady, but every member would be handpicked with an eye to the future.

* * *

Sadly Sorcha had to leave without the two of us having the chance to chat up on things. Mostly because Prince Imrahil was eager to hit the road again.

We left Tarnost in the early afternoon, riding through a weather that changed between sunny spots, clouds and short drizzles of rain.

That day we rode hard to make up for the miles lost during the morning we had spent at Tarnost. When we finally arrived at the bridge of Ethring I was almost asleep on my horse.

* * *

The following day we rode southwards on the road to Linhir. The road was in a fairly good condition, if a little muddy from the rains. In the evening we reached the Gap of Tarnost, the narrow stretch of perhaps thirty miles between the hills of Tarnost and the foothills of the Ered Nimrais that are called the hills of Ethring. We stayed in the castle of Ethring that is built upon an outcropping of the Hills of Ethring, keeping watch on the Gap of Tarnost from the north-east. It is a fairly small castle with little in the ways of comforts and serves as a garrison for a company of knights from Dol Amroth. If you get closer, the handsome knights of Dol Amroth are just as rugged and rough warriors as you can find anywhere. For one night I enjoyed the company and the wicked songs and tales they shared at the fire side.

But when we rode into the blooming country of the Lebennin the next morning I was happy that we had to stay only one night at the castle of Ethring. I am simply not quick enough at witty repartee to hold my own among the company of those hardy warriors. Éowyn would have had the time of her life.

* * *

In the Lebennin spring was already at its height. We rode along the east road, up and down the soft swells of the foothills of the Ered Nimrais. You have never experienced spring until you ride on a soft, balmy day of spring across those green hills and look to the South, to the flowering orchards and emerald meadows of the Lebennin. They have many orchards there close to the rivers Gilrain, Serni and Sirith. The cherry, apple and almond trees were in full flower, shining white and pink across the distance. Looking back, I have the impression that during the six days we crossed the Lebennin, the sun was always shining, the air was filled with the sweetest perfume of spring and somewhere above us larks were singing.

Sometimes it was not only the larks singing, but Elrohir and Elladan.

The sons of Elrond had accomplished their task at Dol Amroth. The task had been – as I knew by now – to sail the white elvish sloop from Mithlond to Dol Amroth and put it into up high and dry in a cave under the lighthouse of Dol Amroth. Once day the small white ship would carry the sons of Elrond to Aman, the Blessed. For the time being they had been allowed to stay on in Middle-earth and postpone their choice between an elvish and a mortal life, to support their sister. But when their sister had gone and the children of her children were grown, the twins would have to make the Peredhil's choice. The elvish ship would be waiting for that day in the cave below the lighthouse of Dol Amroth.

Now, their task done, and on their way to meet their sister and their foster-brother again, the twins were light of heart and easily moved by the beauty of spring.

I can only say again you do not know what spring is, until you have ridden across the Lebennin, listening to larks and elves singing a song of spring.

* * *

We passed between the hills of the Emyn Arnen and the Mindolluin and the southern gate of the Rammas Echor early in the afternoon of the 11th of April.

I have to admit I was apprehensive about seeing the fields of the Pelennor again.

Too vivid were my memories of the day when I had arrived at Minas Tirith a year ago, when the dead were not yet completely buried, when the fields had been a swamp of blood and death and the air filled with the cawing of crows and the stench of putrefaction and smoke.

But when the road veered eastwards and the fields of the Pelennor lay open before us, I gasped with surprise.

All through the last year nothing had grown on the fields of the Pelennor, no weed, no grass, no flower. There had been nothing but bare, dead earth when we had left Minas Tirith in September a year before. I remembered how I had turned at the southern gate and looked back, from the small southern corner that had escaped the slaughter to the desolate fields to the north and the east. Then I had thought that nothing would ever grow there again.

Now, a year later, the fields of the Pelennor were a sea of green grass and shining red flowers.

Poppies were growing all over the fields of the Pelennor. Bright red flowers were swaying in the gentle spring breeze where a year ago death and destruction had tilled the earth. Only the on the grave mounds at the sides of the road leading to Osgiliath no flowers were blooming. But between the white stones that covered the dead heroes of the war of the rings green grass and soft dark moss had started to grow, relieving the grim appearance of those stony hills.

I reined in Mithril and stared at the Pelennor. At that moment Elladan and Elrohir were riding at my side and they halted their stallions, too, following my gaze.

"They will bloom that way only for one single year ," Elladan said finally. "They grow wherever the earth has been moved thoroughly, and then left alone. Most often that is the case on battle fields. A year a battle field will lie as dead as the warriors that died on it. Then the earth will wake again. A short summer poppies will flower where the blood of many has been spilt. A tribute of the earth to the fallen heroes, or so it seems."

Elrohir added, "And next year the farmers will return to the fields of the Pelennor and till them and sow them. Wheat will grow here again and vegetables. And only the silent hills at the road to Osgiliath will remind a passer-by of a dark day in March in the year 3019 of the third age of Middle-earth."

* * *

**A/N: **Aeneid of HASA has taken up my challenge of writing the story of Helmichis' parents. IMHO Aeneid is one of the greatest fan fiction writers out there at the moment. It is a high honour for me that she will tell this story for me.

I will tell you when to look for the first chapter. And you really should!


	78. Fearing for Faramir

**78. Fearing for Faramir**

We rode right up to the Citadel. The colours of the steward of Gondor were flying at the top of the Tower of Ecthelion and as we reached the third circle of the city the blue and silver flag of Dol Amroth went up next to it. But the flag of the king, splendid with the silver crown and the seven stars, was not billowing at the centre of the flagpoles.

I narrowed my eyes and frowned. If the flag of the king was not up that meant Aragorn was not in Minas Tirith at the moment. But why should he be away now? And where could he be?

Arwen was waiting for us at the gate of the seventh circle of the city. She wore a pale blue, loose gown and held up her hands in a gesture of welcome. Elladan and Elrohir were riding before me. When they saw Arwen, they halted their horses. For a long moment they looked at their sister, but then they turned towards each other, identical smiles of delight spreading across their faces.

I think I have mentioned before that I am sometimes embarrassingly slow to grasp the obvious. But when Lady Míriël – who was riding next to me – exclaimed, "Oh, how wonderful!", even I realized that Arwen's loose gown could only have one meaning. Aragorn and Arwen had not been idle during the long months of winter. Arwen was pregnant!

I felt a surge of happiness rushing through my body, a smile beginning to glow on my face when I realized that Arwen was very pale and that her eyes were dark with worry. I felt a cold weight dropping into the pit of my stomach. _What was wrong?_

We dismounted and walked quickly to the gate where the Queen of Gondor was waiting for us. She embraced her brothers. Imrahil bowed to her, Míriël, Elaine and I curtsied. Míri had drilled me well. My curtsy may have been more wobbly than pretty, but at least I did not stumble anymore. Arwen inclined her head to the others, but me she raised from the curtsy and embraced quickly, holding my arms just a little too tightly.

"Thanks be to Eru that you are here!" Arwen said, looking at Elaine. Her voice was strained. "I was already afraid that the message had gone astray."

Elaine frowned. "Which message?"

Arwen's eyes grew round with astonishment. "The urgent message that summoned you here, of course –"

"There was no message," Elaine replied, her frown deepening.

"But, the courier," Arwen said and her voice was almost trembling. "What happened to the courier I sent to Tarnost? And why are you here, if not –"

"Not here," Imrahil cut in. "Your highness, we should not exchange any news in a public place."

Arwen looked at the serious face of the prince, then nodded and swallowed hard. Whatever had happened was not good. That much was obvious. The tiny hairs at the back of my neck prickled. My nose went cold, as it always does when I get scared. Arwen motioned for the waiting grooms to take over the horses. Then she led us to the royal palace.

A few minutes later we were back at the long table in the Council chamber, where Aragorn had discussed the situation in Rohan with us several months before.

When the Lady Elaine wanted to enter the room, Arwen stopped her. Her face was almost white. If she had not been an elf, I would have said she was fighting to keep up an appearance of composure. But Arwen's voice betrayed a hint of urgency, when she spoke to the healer of Tarnost. "My lady, let me tell you the worst news first, because I am afraid you are needed elsewhere at once." Then she turned to us. "Faramir and his company were attacked on a patrol at the borders of Ithilien. There have been minor skirmishes with scattered groups of orcs for several months now, ever since food grew scarce in their caves during the winter. But this attack was different from the others. It was a large group of orcs, and they attacked according to a plan. They lured the company into a ravine, then they came at them from both ends and they had archers up on the slopes. Faramir has been seriously wounded. It would have been a fairly easy matter for the Mistress Ioreth, I am told, but she is ill herself. We suspect that someone has tried to poison her. She is on the mend, but she can't take care of Faramir, and –" "He's in the Houses of Healing?" Elaine was already heading for the door. "Yes, he is. Please, do for him what you can, my lady." Arwen's voice was thin with worry. Elaine nodded and then she was gone, hurrying to the Houses of Healing.

Arwen's words echoed eerily in my ears. I felt the blood drain from my head. The air around me seemed to be vibrating with the echo of her words. _Faramir… badly wounded… Ioreth poisoned… a message that was lost on the way to Tarnost; on one of the safest roads in Gondor…_My heart was pounding heavily, my palms felt icy against my thighs. From far away I heard Arwen's voice as she went on to explain what had happened.

"Without the power of the Eldar, I could not help Faramir very much. He's very poorly and I am afraid he might lose the use of his right leg." Now Arwen's voice was definitely shaking. "And he was almost on his way to Edoras, too." The twins were exchanging worried looks. Arwen was very pale indeed. Elrohir pulled his sister against him and helped her to a chair. He sat down next to her and continued holding her hand. Slowly a little colour returned to her pale cheeks.

Prince Imrahil waited a moment, until Arwen looked a little better. Then he looked at her and his eyes were cold. "Where is the king?"

"He did what he could to stabilize Faramir," Arwen replied. "But then he went after the orcs. The first families have returned to Osgiliath and he was very worried that they might be in danger. He suspects that there's a new leader in the dark land, or at least that there's someone who has managed to gather some of the remaining orcs of the dark land under his command. He wants to find their headquarters and destroy it."

"How many men did he take?" Imrahil asked. I could not tell if he thought that Aragorn had acted wisely or not. _Aragorn couldn't be in any danger, could he?_

"Two hundred riders and fifty archers," Arwen answered. "He sent messages to Dol Amroth and Tarnost at once, for you to take control of Minas Tirith and for Elaine to come here and take over the Houses of Healing until Ioreth is well again. You should have been here days ago."

"No messengers from Minas Tirith have come to Tarnost or Dol Amroth for weeks," Imrahil said. "Where is Lord Húrin?"

"I have sent for him as soon as word of your arrival reached me. He should be here any minute now. He is arranging a postponement of the discussions about Harondor. The ambassadors of Harad and Umbar are loath to accept that. They are threatening to abandon the negotiations." Arwen explained. The presence of her brothers seemed to steady her.

"They will have to accept the postponement," Imrahil said grimly. "And they better hope we don't find any connection between these incidents and Haradric or Umbarian politics."

At that moment Húrin entered the room. He looked weary and worried. After a curt nod to us, he turned at once to Imrahil. "The ambassadors of Harad and Umbar have agreed to postpone the negotiations. Duke Herion is frantic. He believes his life to be in danger. And although I don't think there is a connection between the matter of Harondor and this… business –the Ambassadors of Harad and Umbar will certainly do their best to profit from it." Lord Húrin gave the queen a small bow. "May I sit down, my lady?"

"Of course, my lord," Arwen inclined her head gracefully.

Húrin slumped down on a chair. "I can't remember the last time I slept. The Valar be praised that you are finally here, Imrahil. In a week I expect the other lords for the spring council. If Aragorn's not back they will yell bloody murder." He nodded to a servant who held a tray with a carafe of wine and several glasses. The servant offered the first glass to the queen, but Arwen declined. Then the servant poured for Imrahil, Húrin and the sons of Elrond.

"If I may suggest something, my lady?" Míriël asked Arwen. Arwen looked at the lady of Dol Amroth, her eyes filled with fatigue and anxiety. "If Lord Húrin can tell my husband the necessary details, you should withdraw. In your condition you need peace and quiet and not the hassle of councils and the worries of foreign politics."

Arwen nodded weakly. "I think you are right. My lords – you know where you can find me if there is anything you need of me." After exchanging a few whispered words in Sindarin with her brothers, she rose to her feet and slowly walked to the door.

"Come with me, Lothíriel." Míriël said and when I only stared at her, as I was still slightly dazed from what I just had heard, she shook her head and simply took my arm, dragging me to the door.

* * *

When the door had closed behind us, my thoughts finally caught up with me. "You can let go of me, Míri." I said. "I'm coming, I'm coming." Míri raised her eyebrows at me in a silent question. _Could I keep calm?_

I shrugged. I would try.

Míriël went to the queen. Although Arwen was not as pale as she had been when she had met us at the gates, she was still very pale. Míri laid her arm around the queen, and to my surprise Arwen only sighed deeply and rested her head against the human woman's shoulder. Míri's eyes darkened with compassion. "You really should lie down, my lady. May I ask how far along you are?"

"A little more than three months, I conceived on the fourth of Narvinyë," Arwen said with a hint of a smile in her voice, if not on her pale face.

"How are you?" I asked. "How…" I did not know how to go on. _How does it feel?_

"We should get you to your rooms first, my lady." Míriël repeated, raising her eyebrows at me as if to tell me "not here, not now".

The Royal apartments in Minas Tirith are on the first floor of the palace, "the King's House".

At the centre of the apartments is the royal bedroom. To the right of the bedroom are Aragorn's private rooms, to the left Arwen's and around the corner from Arwen's rooms there are several nurseries and other rooms destined for child rearing – class rooms and toy rooms and such, whereas around the corner from Aragorn's rooms there are more studies and libraries and such than even a king can use in one day.

We went to Arwen's drawing room. I say drawing room lacking any better description. It is not a living room. It is not comfortable enough for that. It's like a room for the queen and her ladies to spend the afternoon – painting, reading, stitching or whatever noble ladies do to pass idle hours. Arwen had seven ladies-in-waiting at the moment, apart from Míri only young girls from the best noble families of Gondor, and one from Rohan. They were in that room when we entered, busy with various of the afore mentioned pursuits. Míriël took one look at them, one look at the pale queen, and then she made the girls leave the room.

She made Arwen lie down on a divan and covered her with a warm blanket, sending a maid for some special tea. I slumped down on an easy chair that was obviously of elvish origin, flowing lines of white wood and upholstery of dark blue velvet. It was probably very comfortable. But I was not comfortable. I was worried about my friend who looked so fragile and pale as she lay on the divan and I felt thoroughly sick with fear for Faramir. _If anyone can heal him, it's Elaine. She has the reputation for being the best healer in Gondor after the Mistress Ioreth. Faramir will be alright. Faramir has to be alright._

But the sick feeling stayed in my stomach. I tried to suppress blurred memories of a dark haired warrior being hit by black arrows.

Instead I gave Arwen a wavering smile. _Keep to the happy news. _"How do you know exactly when you conceived?" I asked the first thing that came to my mind – then blushed horribly. Even if you were friends with the queen of Gondor, this was probably not a question one ought to ask. But Arwen did not seem to mind. She looked at me with astonishment. "How could I not know?" She asked.

I frowned at her. "Well, as far as I know, human women don't know when they have conceived… or at least not at once." Then I remembered what Gily had told me in Rivendell. Elves did not have monthlies, so they would not be able to tell if they were pregnant that way.

But how did they know?

Arwen seemed taken aback. "You don't know when you have conceived a child?"

Míriël laughed softly. "No, my lady, most of the time a human woman will not know at once when she has conceived. Though I myself do believe that I have felt it each time when I conceived – a kind of tug, deep in my womb, the feeling of a new presence inside of me that faded into sleep at once. But I know that most human women don't feel anything at all. Often they will only know when their monthlies don't arrive, and sometimes when their periods are irregular, they will only be sure after many weeks or sometimes only after a few months – or when they develop morning sickness or other symptoms of pregnancy. I take it that this is not the way of elves?"

At that moment the maid entered, carrying with a tray that was set with cups and plates for tea. Míri had the maid put everything on a small round table and then told her to leave again. Míri poured the tea herself and carried a cup over to the queen, setting it on a low table next to the divan. "Here, my lady, this will soothe your nerves and your stomach. Lothíriel, you should have some, too. You look faint."

Arwen sipped the tea and sighed. "This is very good. Thank you."

I poured some tea for me and drank deeply. It tasted of linden flowers and something I couldn't place. But it was a pleasant taste. And it was soothing. And I did need it. I smiled into my cup. After the long months of winter spent at Dol Amroth, Míri knew me very well.

Arwen put down her cup and gave Míriël a small smile. "It is indeed, different with elves. I keep forgetting just how different we are. We elves conceive a child when the woman and the man both wish for it. We know when the time is right. Then we join bodies, hearts, minds and souls in the endeavour of begetting a child. The mother knows at once, she also knows if the child will be a boy and a girl, or if it will be twins. Therefore we elves celebrate not the birthday, but the begetting day as the first day of our lives."

As she said that something sparkled in the depths of her grey eyes. I frowned at her.

_Twins?!_

"Do you… are you allowed to tell us?" I asked Arwen, suddenly forgetting about our worries, instead staring in utter fascination at her midsection, covered as it was by the warm blanket.

I must have looked funny, because she laughed abruptly, a small laugh, but a merry laugh nevertheless. The first happy sound since our arrival at Minas Tirith. "Yes," she said. "I may tell you. I am blessed with two girls. On the fourth of Narvinyë next year, my first daughters will be born. Celair and Celu they will be called, to honour my mother."

I blinked at Arwen. I did not know what to say. I was thrilled and excited and confused all at once. Míri knew exactly what to say, and did, her voice warm with undisguised joy. "Congratulations, my lady! Then Gondor will be twice blessed and lucky, and the King's reign will be, too. Twins are a sign of blessing from the One. Only a boy would have been a better omen."

"I will have only one son," Arwen said. "Eldarion. He will be my last child. My grandmother has seen it in her mirror. But many daughters will come from our house."

Arwen's voice was calm and firm. I shivered. How strange to know so much of your future!

For a moment even Míriël seemed to be taken aback by this revelation. But she quickly regained her composure. "My lady, I would advise you not to tell anyone else of your foreknowledge. People are superstitious. We don't want to give rise to any… false impressions about your power." The queen of Gondor rolled her eyes at that, nodded and sighed. "Yes, you are right, Lady Míriël. You don't know what kind of trouble I've already had with my handmaidens and those ladies-in-waiting I have to have. They are sweet girls, all of them. But they know nothing about elves. And they believe the most extraordinary things. One of the girls asked me if it hurts to become invisible. Another was so scared of me that she kept dropping porcelain – I had to send her home."

I groaned. Míriël chuckled. "Oh dear… well, I guess in time they will get used to the fact that you cannot become invisible."

"Or that I don't have wings – or that I cannot light the fire with my thoughts – or talk to animals – or…" Arwen went on, her voice tinged with amusement.

"I am not convinced that you actually cannot talk to animals," I objected, remembering our legendary horse races on the road from Edoras to Minas Tirith. My proud Meara had not always been the one to win our games. Arwen and Míriël joined me in renewed laughter. But after a moment we fell silent again.

* * *

The things that we had been so very careful not to talk about since we had left the Council chamber were heavy on our hearts. How was Faramir? Where was Aragorn? What would happen with the negotiations about Harondor now effectively at a standstill? Had the great realm of Khand anything to do with the things that had happened?

Míriël insisted that Arwen remained on the sofa with her feet up and resting. Arwen obeyed meekly, which told me that my friend did not feel well at all. _Did elves have morning sickness? Or was it only worrying about Aragorn and Faramir?_

My heart gave a heavy thump.

_Poor Eowyn!_

A message had been dispatched to Edoras at once, of course, with a courier riding behind it with a more detailed missive. The message would arrive in the middle of the preparations for the wedding.

I felt sick at the thought.

In only a few days, Faramir would have left for Edoras, for the first part of the marriage ceremonies. It had been decided that they would take their formal vows and exchange the marriage contract at Edoras, and then travel to their new home in the hills of Emyn Arnen for the celebration.

Now we had to pray that there would be any marriage at all in May.

It was growing dark outside and still we had heard nothing about the decisions of the council, or from Lord Húrin or Prince Imrahil, or from the Houses of Healing. The door opened noiselessly and a maid moved silently around the room, lighting candles until the room was brilliant with a hundred small flames. Then she knelt down in front of the fire place and quickly built up a good log fire to warm the room. At the beginning of April the nights were still cool, even if the days were already warm with a hint of summer.

The waiting began to get on my nerves.

Míriël had the kitchen send up dinner for three. It was a silent meal. We sat at the small round table in front of the balcony, eating soup, fish, lamb chops, salad, and the first strawberries of the year. We drank well-watered wine with the meal and afterwards steaming cups of tírithel. _Should I ask if alcohol was o.k. for elvish babies?_

My thoughts went back and forth between Faramir, Aragorn, Eowyn, the messengers that had disappeared and Ioreth. Why had she been poisoned? To get Faramir out of the way? But why? To prevent the negotiations between Gondor and Haradwaith? Was this about the borders of Ithilien? Or was this an effort to turn Aragorn's attention from Nurn?

There were too many possibilities what all of this could mean. Too damn many possibilities.

I had begun to hope that the attempt on my life and the attack on Éomer had been merely coincidence, bad luck. Nothing had happened for months, after all. I had thought that perhaps now everything would remain calm, with the realms of Rohan and Gondor flourishing in peace and good-will… No such luck. _Damn._

After dinner Arwen and Míriël tried to keep their hands and minds busy with embroidery, stitching some tapestry or other. There are certain activities that are deemed more suitable than others for noble ladies to engage in, in order to pass the time. Embroidery and needlework being one of them. But although Míri had succeeded in teaching me how to curtsy, she had by now given up on me where needlework was concerned. So I sat in the easy chair and stared into the fire. There was a book in my lap (reading being another activity suitable for noble ladies). It was a beautiful book with Gondorian poetry and it was interesting, too, because there were even some verses in it that Denethor, Faramir's father had written for his wife, but tonight my eyes could make no sense of the tengwar runes so skilfully arranged in verse and rhyme.

Names went round and round in my mind in ceaseless circles of fretting.

_Faramir… Éowyn… Aragorn… Éomer…Faramir…_

_Oh, gods, how I wished that Éomer was here with me. _I had missed Éomer every day and every night – if not every hour – since we had parted last autumn. But tonight I missed him more than ever. Thinking about him was almost enough to drive the tears to my eyes. More than anything else I wanted to see his dark eyes and to hear his deep voice telling me that everything would be alright. I knew that this was impossible; even if Éomer was here, he would not be able to make everything alright. That is the trouble with real life, and being an adult. You know that some things will never alright, and that there is no one who could make them alright. But even so, without Éomer here, everything was decidedly worse to bear.

I gave a small sigh and continued staring into the fire and waiting for the Lady Elaine to send word from the Houses of Healing that Faramir was better. That Faramir would not die. That Faramir would keep his leg.

But the evening passed without a message from the Houses of Healing, and we finally had to go to bed without any news about Faramir's condition.


	79. A Rohirric Children's Tale

**A/N: **If anyone out there knows Rohirric, I'd be glad for some help… that is I'd be glad if you could tell me what my clumsy efforts at including some Rohirric in this story should look like… (for the time being I use Old English, but I don't know if that's correct; it could be that I should use Middle English or Anglo-Saxon - if anyone knows more about this, please tell me!)

* * *

**79. A Rohirric Children's Tale**

I had escaped from the palace for a morning stroll. All alone. I knew that was no proper behaviour for a young noble lady betrothed to marry a king. But I desperately needed some time to myself and my thoughts.

Now I was standing at the foremost edge of the cliff of Minas Tirith. It was very early in the morning; the sun had just climbed above the peaks of the Ephel Dúath. The six circles of the city down below were still quiet. Now and again I hear the crowing of a cock, or the rumbling sound of cart-wheels on the cobbled stones of the streets, or the soft neigh of a horse, but all in all the six circles of Minas Tirith were still quiet and perhaps a little drowsy with sleep. I was leaning against the white wall of the Embrasure that came up as high as my breasts. I had crossed my arms and out them on the wall, comfortably resting my chin on them. The stone felt cool against my palms, the texture of the stone was a little crumbly. I would get my clothes dusty and Míri would give me _that_ look again – the look that told me she would have expected such behaviour from Mel, but not from me. I did not care. It was good to be alone. It was good to feel the strength of the stone against my breast and my arms.

* * *

The sun was rising in the east in a burst of fire, golden, red, orange. The sky was the soft pastel blue of spring. It was only the 15th of April. Forty miles to the east, the dark blue shadows of the Ephel Duath loomed against the bright sky of morning. With the sun rising up behind the ragged slopes of Mountains of Shadow, the Ephel Duath were true to their name and looked like a huge, shadowy fence set against the eastern horizon. Before them the soft hill country of Emyn Arnen swelled up in gentle, fresh green hues of spring. I remembered April – or by now I should really start saying Víressë, even in my mind – last year. I closed my eyes for a moment, thinking back to the ferry that had taken Merry and me to Cormallen.

_To be in Ithil, now that April's there…_

I frowned. _To be in Ithilien, now that Víressë's there…_

Somehow that did not sound true.

My eyes drifted westwards. The silver ribbon of the Anduin, the great river, as it flowed between the hills of Ithilien and the district of Minas Tirith to the south… and to the new white walls of Osgiliath, and behind those a glimpse of white and grey and gold, walls and roofs and cupolas, testament to the slow rebirth of the city of the Citadel of the Stars. Arwen had told me that the foundations for a new Dome of the Stars had been laid in Súlimë in a beautiful ceremony and a great feast afterwards. The main city of Ithilien would regain the splendour it had had at the beginning of the third age - that much was sure.

The short stretch of fields between the walls of Osgiliath and the Rammas Echor – not even ten miles in width – was lush with the new growth of spring. The eastern walls of the Rammas Echor had been repaired and gleamed again as whitely as the walls of Minas Tirith. But my gaze drifted quickly past the walls, caught by the brilliance of the Fields of the Pelennor. From way up here, the northern and the eastern part of the Pelennor was a sea of brilliant reds. Only the small southern edge that had escaped the battle last year showed the usual springtime colours of green and white, grass and the blossoms of the orchards. The road to the eastern gate had been paved with smooth white stones. It would soon turn grey with use, but for the moment it was a streak of pure white colour among the crimson of the poppies blooming on the Fields of the Pelennor. Apart from the road and the white and green hills of the grave mounds at the side of the road to Osgiliath, the Pelennor was suffused in the red of poppy blossoms. _Poppies on the Pelennor…_

Last year I had thought that nothing would ever grow again on the dark and desolate battlefields of the Pelennor. I inhaled deeply. The morning air was still crisp in the middle of Gondorian spring. For the first time in days I felt more or less calm. Behind me, on the Tower of Ecthelion, the colours of the King were flying proud and beautiful.

* * *

Aragorn had returned to Minas Tirith yesterday. He had managed to destroy a settlement of orcs close to the Morgul pass, but he had been unable to determine if it had been the company that had attacked Osgiliath or who had banded so many orcs together. I was so happy that he was back. Somehow this having a king turns me into a child again – who believes that as long as Daddy's here, nothing bad can happen.

But what is even more important: Faramir will be alright. He's on the mend. He's improving daily. His health, that is. Not his temper. Gods, I'm so glad that I'm able to witness his temper tantrums! I thought Faramir was the quiet one of Denethor's sons. I was wrong. He just hides that temper better than his brother did. He's still planning to leave for Edoras in five days. He has promised to be in Edoras on the first of May, Lótessë, and that's that. So he can't ride. Well, there's such a thing as carriages. He is stubborn, that Steward of Gondor.

I am told that Aragorn left his room and kicked a wall in frustration.

But the Lady Elaine says that if Faramir really takes a carriage, it won't endanger his recovery, and especially the mending of his leg. So that's exactly what he plans to do.

I think that's wonderful. And Éowyn will be so relieved. But I may not go with him. _Damn._ Aragorn told me it is too dangerous. Imrahil agreed. Míriël said it was not appropriate anyway.

Why dangerous? Aragorn's sending a whole company of knights with Faramir! And on their way back Éomer and I don't know how many companies of Éored will be with them! And Éomer's white riders!

And _appropriate_… that almost makes me miss the turmoil of last year. With the war and everything no one was able to care very much about what was proper or appropriate for me to do and what was not. Somehow it's still difficult for me to adjust to the fact that here in Gondor and in Rohan noble ladies don't get to decide for themselves where to go and what to do.

I **do** know that I am in a special position as the betrothed of Éomer King. I also know that there is danger out there. One attempt to kill me, one attempt to kill Éomer, one attempt to kill Faramir, one attempt to kill Ioreth: yes, I guess that does sound like trouble.

But it's still difficult. Back on earth I took so much for granted: the freedom you have as an adult woman in a western country… to dress any way you like, to go where you please, to do what you want… In the closely knit society of Gondor and Rohan that is more or less impossible. It's easier for commoners, working women. But even for them the laws of the land and – much more important – customs and conventions define their lives in a way that is much, much stricter than what I knew from Germany, Europe, earth, 21st century.

Yes, I heaved a sigh. But not much of a sigh. Even if I was not allowed to travel to Edoras, I would see Éomer again soon. My heart thumped heavily. _How would that be? To meet him again… after seven months… _I had never been parted from a lover for that length of time. But he was not my lover. He was my fiancé. I swallowed dryly. _What if things had changed between us during the seven months we had not seen each other – and only heard from each other in rather short letters? How would it be, to meet him again?_

Éomer… with his mane of golden, dun and dark hair, his darker beard, his almost black eyes with those weird amber flecks… Éomer, with his strong, capable, callused hands… his wide shoulders… Éomer… that spicy scent mixed with the smell of horse, warm, dusty, pungent… Éomer… that deep, clear voice that made me all shivery inside…

_How would it be, to meet him again?_

Today was the 15th of April. Faramir intended to set out on the 20th. It would probably take him ten days to get to Edoras. He would stay at Edoras for five days. Formal vows and consummation of a new marriage deserves five days, even if the celebrations and the public announcement are to follow only later… Five days in Edoras and at least ten days back to Minas Tirith. That meant they would be here on the 15th of May at the earliest.

A little over four weeks. Perhaps even five weeks until. Until. My heart skipped a beat and my stomach did one of those weird flops. Five weeks until I saw Éomer again.

A bell chimed. A quarter to eleven. I would have to be quick now.

* * *

I hurried back to the King's House. Although I had no real lessons at the moment, I did have to keep up my studies. Helmichis had taken over from the sons of Elrond to try and get me speaking Rohirric in a way a Rohirrim might be able to understand what I was saying. I had an appointment with him at eleven o'clock to practice my Rohirric. It wouldn't do for the lady to be late when her bodyguard was on time.

* * *

The King's House is situated behind the Tower of Ecthelion. Actually it is an add-on to the Hall of Merethrond built at a right angle behind the hall, which is actually the old palace, and not only (but mainly) a hall.

The layout of the palace is quite simple. You enter the King's House from the east. To your right is the Hall of Merethrond. At your back is the Tower of Ecthelion. You step into the entrance hall of the King's House. The entrance hall goes up to the first floor. It's huge. At the back of the entrance hall there's a broad staircase of white marble leading up to the other floors of the palace. To the right are the kitchens and the servants' quarters. To the left is the real palace.

On the ground floor of the King's House are the official rooms, council chambers, libraries, dining halls, but also the kitchens and guardrooms and such. The first floor is the royal apartments. The second floor is the apartments of the lords and ladies in residence and rooms for important guests. There is also a third floor and an attic. And everything connects to the servants' wing to the north, so that everyone can be waited on in next to no time. Efficient.

But there are more buildings to the Citadel – the seventh circle of Minas Tirith – than the King's House, the Hall of Merethrond and the Tower of Ecthelion. There are several small palaces for guests and ambassadors; there are houses for the knights and the squires of Gondor and the famous Guard of the Citadel. There are houses for the every day needs of life at the Citadel: bathing houses, washing houses, smithies, houses to store supplies, to name but a few.

* * *

citadel is almost like a city in the city, I reflected as I climbed the great marble stairs to the suite of rooms I shared with my family. At least by now I did not get lost every time I left our apartments.

I entered the study. With some satisfaction I noticed that I was on time. But Míri was already there, too. She was sitting at a desk near the window, studying a ledger. She was probably calculating the costs of the household for the next weeks.

I managed not to grimace. I knew that I was contributing a fair share to those costs. My dowry had to be assembled. I could have done without any dowry. I know that Éomer would not have minded. He knows where I come from, after all, and what I had with me when I walked up to the gate at Bree. And for heaven's sake, he's a _king_! There's everything I will ever need at Meduseld, more than I will ever need in my life, in fact. But that would be completely inappropriate. That is not how things are done in Gondor and in Rohan, when nobles and royals marry. Dowry, bride-price, what have you, those customs are important, those customs are a way of displaying wealth and influence. Royal weddings are an insidious mixture of politics and show-business.

I ran my fingers across my head, making sure that the knot I had twisted my hair into was still there. I wrinkled my nose. As far as I could tell my hair was still where it was supposed to be. But I was fairly sure that a few strands had escaped my attempts at a proper coiffure once again, trailing around my neck in disarray.

Míri looked up from her ledger and shook her head at me, her eyebrows raised slightly.

From her look I could tell easily that I did not look like a proper young noble woman of Gondor. _Again._ It's not as if I didn't try. And I am willing to bet my last shirt that Éowyn would be much more rebellious than I am. I am not really rebellious. Just clumsy. And sometimes I need a little time for myself and my thoughts.

I sat down in one of the two arm chairs in front of the fire place, trying to remember what my last lesson of Rohirric had been all about.

A knock sounded at the door. "Come in," I called, and the door opened. It was Helmichis, his thick blond hair still damp from washing. He was dressed in the blue and silver livery of Dol Amroth. I could tell from the way he moved that he was still uncomfortable with coming to the apartments of Dol Amroth not as a bodyguard but simply to talk to me in Rohirric. He moved as if he felt too big and clumsy for the refined surroundings of these rooms. I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling. Not so very long ago I had felt just the same. Heck, more often than not I _still_ felt the same.

But by now I knew that the apartments the Prince of Dol Amroth kept at Minas Tirith were almost plain. Everything in the rooms was chosen with care, and only the best materials available were used, much as at Dol Amroth. But even though the furniture and the trappings of the rooms were beautiful, they were meant to be used, to be lived in; in other words, the chairs – made in the fashion of the elves – were comfortable and the tables were large enough to really work there, you could heap piles of books and scrolls on them and still have enough room left to write a letter.

"Good morning, my ladies," Helmichis said and bowed deeply, his tone of voice caught between the clear rolling sounds of the Bay, which is Westron with the memory of Sindarin in the liquid flow of the language, and the more rumbling sound of the Rohirric. Míri inclined her head politely, but did not say anything. I was to do the talking. In Rohirric.

I had to answer in Rohirric. Now. Politely. I swallowed dryly. I might be able to read tengwar by now, but Rohirric was still difficult for me. "_Ic grete þe_. I greet you," I said finally, curling my tongue around the still unfamiliar sounds. Helmichis bowed again.

"_Wes ðu hal, hlæfdige min_," he said. "Hail, my lady."

"Please, sit down," I said, the Rohirric words sounding awkward in my ears and pointed to the other easy chair in front of the fire place. Helmichis carefully sat down. "What shall we talk about today, my lady?" He asked politely, taking care to speak slowly and pronounce his words clearly so that I could understand him. I frowned because I did not know how to say what I wanted to say in Rohirric. Finally I gave up on it and switched to Westron. Gandalf had put a spell on me so that I could speak and understand Westron as if I had been born to it._ Why the hell couldn't he have done the same with Sindarin and Rohirric? _"Perhaps if we start with something you can simply tell me… a tale, perhaps. And then… umm… perhaps you ask me a few questions about it and I try to answer them?"

Helmichis nodded slowly. He has a way of doing everything slowly and firmly – except fighting, that is, I have watched him at weapons' training, and he's like hell on wheels; but apart from fighting, Helmichis acts and speaks with careful deliberation. When he says something or does something, it always seems as if he has thought things through and now will put all of his mind and strength into the matter, because he knows it is right. "_Giese, hlæfdige min_. Yes, my lady." Then he gave me a surprisingly bright smile. "That is a good idea. I will tell you the tale of Felaróf, the horse of Eorl the young, the first Meara ever to be tamed. It was my favourite story when I was but a _lytel cniht_, a small boy."

That did not sound so bad. In fact that sounded positively interesting. I settled down in my chair and looked at my bodyguard expectantly.

* * *

"Once upon a time," Helmichis began, then winked at me and switched to Rohirric.

"_Æne ongean in tid_, there lived a great lord among the Éothéod who was much renowned for his skill at taming wild horses. His name was Léod. He was married to a beautiful golden haired woman and had a little son who was called Eorl. There have always been wild horses in the lands of Calenardhon. And the best and most beautiful among them are the famous white Mearas, the descendants of Béma's great steed, Nahar. But until the time of Léod, no one had ever been able to tame any Meara. They were simply too wild, too smart and too strong. Now, Léod desired more than anything else to be the first to tame one of Béma's horses. He knew that if he could tame a Meara, his fame would be greater than that of any other lord of the Éothéod. He watched the wild white horses for many years. But he never got close enough to them to catch one of them, although he tried often. He had almost given up on his plan, when he found a mare which had just given birth to a beautiful white foal. The mare was still dazed from the birth, and the foal was only staggering. This was the moment Léod had waited for! He slipped a coil of rope around the foal's head and led it home. A short time after their birth, foals will follow anyone. That is their nature and because of that horses move away from the herd for giving birth – they don't want to lose their foals to another mare. And so it was with this one, too.

Soon it followed Lord Léod as if he was its mother. Léod took it home and fed it like a human baby, by hand, waking many times every night for weeks. Léod took good care of the foal. The foal grew quickly into a proud and strong stallion. He was fair beyond any horse ever seen in all of Calenardhon. But the stallion could not forget that he had been taken away from his dam with a trick and he would not allow himself to be truly tamed. He would not allow himself to be saddled or bridled, not even by Léod.

Finally Léod was beyond patience and care. He _wanted_ that horse more than anything else in the world. So one day, he mounted the stallion without a saddle or bridle or tether. The stallion reared and raced away in a great burst of speed. It is said that the stallion kept running across the plains of Calenardhon for three days until he threw off Léod. It was only a matter of time until Léod was thrown off, of course. But the stallion was very wild and very angry and he threw Léod off his back violently. Léod hit the ground hard and unfortunately his head struck a rock, and Léod died. After Léod's death the Éothéod called the stallion 'Mansbane' and no one dared approach that horse as it ran across the plains, white lightning against the darkening sky, so fast was the stallion.

But Eorl son of Léod swore a solemn oath and he vowed to avenge his father. He hunted high and low for the horse, and his face was grim. His companions were sure that when he would finally lay his eyes on the horse which had killed his father, he would simply string up his bow and shoot the proud white stallion – taking a life for a life. Finally, after weeks of following that horse all over the plains, they caught sight of the stallion. Proud and noble, the white horse seemed to await their approach, barely flicking his ears. It was a king of horses! But Eorl was destined to be king of men.

To the surprise of those who were with him he put down his weapons and approached the horse on foot, his hands held up in a gesture of greeting. He called out to the horse in a clear, loud voice: 'Come hither, Mansbane, and get a new name!' And to the wonder of the riders who had accompanied Eorl on his hunt, the horse looked at Eorl for a long time and did not run away. Then the white stallion, the proudest of all Mearas lowered his head and slowly walked towards Eorl. Eorl reached out for the horse and caressed the noble head. "Felaróf, I name you. You loved your freedom, and I do not blame you for that. But now you owe me a great weregild, and you shall surrender your freedom to me until your life's end."

Then Eorl mounted the stallion and Felaróf submitted, carrying Eorl gently and meekly as if he had never done anything else. Eorl rode him home without bit or bridle; and he rode him in like fashion ever after. The horse understood all that men said, though he would allow no man but Eorl to mount him. And on Felaróf Eorl rode to war on the Field of Celebrant where he won his kingdom and his crown, fighting for Gondor. But Felaróf lived as long as his rider, faithful to the last. And so has it been with all the Mearas descended from Felaróf, the sire of the noblest of all horses, the Mearas."

I sighed deeply. What a wonderful tale. What a wonderful tale?!

"I actually could understand that!" I exclaimed happily.  
Helmichis gave me one of his slow, gentle smiles. "So you did, my lady."

"But I thought the Mearas, like my Mithril, or Brego or Hiswa, are still caught from the wild?" I asked, barely aware that I had – though haltingly – spoken Rohirric, caught up in the tale as I was. The horse lore of the Rohirrim is bewildering.

Helmichis nodded and replied – again speaking Rohirric, but slowly enough for me to understand him. "That is true. The royal horses are still caught and tamed in the manner Léod caught and tamed Felaróf. But the Mearas ridden by the white riders, the guard of the king, and the captains of the Éored, are bred and the sire of that herd was Felaróf. They are kept in a special herd, apart from the normal horses used by the common riders, and they are allowed to roam the plains in relative freedom, but they are not wild horses anymore. There are some that say you might not even call them Mearas, because Mearas are only the wild horses of the plains which trace their ancestry to Béma's horses from West over the Sea. However, it is said that the Mearas ridden by the King of Rohan and his family are still captured from the same herd from which Felaróf was taken, more than five hundred years ago."

Once again I was in awe at the honour that had been bestowed upon me with the permission to ride Mithril. Once again I wondered if Gandalf had known what would happen between Éomer and me all along.

I shook my head. Somewhere outside a bell chimed brightly. It was already one o'clock. We had been talking almost two hours. No wonder my head was buzzing. I smiled at Helmichis. "Thank you very much for telling me that story. I really enjoyed it. I think I have learned a lot today. About Rohan and the Éothéod. And I for the first time I have the feeling that I might even have made some progress with the Rohirric language. _Ic þe þancas do, leof min_. I thank you, my friend."

Helmichis rose from his seat, moving surprisingly graceful for such a large man. He bowed to me. His smile was broad and easy. He had enjoyed telling me the story he had loved best as a child. "_Ic sæcge eow þancas,_ _hlæfdige min._ I thank _thee_, my lady."

* * *

That was more or less everything I accomplished that day. But I was content. A morning spent outside, for once alone with my thoughts, and the first real progress with the Rohirric language. That was good enough for one day.

However, I did go down to the stable in the afternoon. I brushed Mithril's coat until it gleamed like the precious metal she is named for, and whispered to her in really bad Rohirric what a wonderful horse she is and what an honour it is that she allowed me to ride her. And yes, I do believe that Mimi understood every word I was saying. I think she even told me where my pronunciation was off with a pointed flick of her right ear.

* * *

**A/N: **So, tell me, who is still out there and reading this? I'd really like to know! Please, drop me a line (or two or three! ...greedy me…).

I do realize that some of the chapters are probably exhausting, because nothing much happens, and that other chapters are exhausting, because they are strangely action-packed, but without an explanation of what is actually happening.

But that is actually part of my plan… I try to limit the story to the things _Lothíriel_ can see, hear, do and experience. Therefore there are supposed to be (some) strange gaps in the story. Because (for example) at the moment she is _not_ allowed to visit Faramir, she is _not_ allowed to travel to Edoras and she is _not_ told about everything that goes on in the negotiations with Harad, Umbar and Khand.

Now: **as a thank you to everyone who's still here**, I have some glimpses of what's in my outline.

SPOILER-ALERT!

* * *

For the next months Lothíriel will stay in Gondor – I think about three or four chapters (Éowyn's wedding, a visit in Ithilien, Sorcha coming to live with Lothy…). Then we move to Edoras for the wedding and some serious sex.

The year 3021 will see some painful adjustments to married life and the duties of a queen. Also, at the beginning of 3021, Arwen's first children are born and some time in the summer we can expect Éowyn's first son.

3023 Lothíriel's first child will be born. Ælfwine.

Later on there will be war and Lord Grimsir will be up to his old tricks (or perhaps some new ones?). Also there is the unresolved matter of why the Lady Elaine wants to be one of Lothíriel's ladies-in-waiting (as always, Mija was right on the spot with her suspicions…).

Then there will be more babies, but also death and grief; there will be a surprise in a big wooden box, and in between some romance, of course. The harper from the Field of Cormallen will reappear and there might be a side-story about Solas and the harper's apprentice.

* * *

I hope you liked the quick look at my outline. And yes, I still hope to be done with 100 chapters.

Cheers!

Juno


	80. Because You Let Me Be

**A/N: **Thank you for telling me that you are still there and enjoying the story! Hugs!

If anyone is interested I'd be willing to mail a zip file of Lothíriel either in htm or in MS Word 2003 for Christmas. Perhaps even with some illustrations – if I can get my scanner going that is. Just send me a (nice) mail with "Re: Lothíriel" and tell me if you prefer a htm or a word file.

…still hoping to have finished Lothy till Christmas…

Yours

Juno

* * *

**80. Because You Let Me Be**

"Something secret about me

Something I hold to myself

I love you in my heart

Because you let me be"

– "Quiet of the Night" by Karan Casey, album "Distant Shore"

* * *

They had to come out of the tunnel leading up to the Citadel any moment now. At the top of the Tower of Ecthelion the banner of Rohan and the white flag of the Stewards of Gondor had joined the colours of the King and the coat of arms of Dol Amroth already billowing in the wind. My heart was in my mouth, my stomach fluttering. My palms felt icy. I was standing next to Míriël. Míriël looked completely composed, her hand gracefully placed upon Prince Imrahil's arm. But I think there was a hint of grin hidden at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes were sparkling, too. I love it when people think I am so funny. I suppressed a sigh, feeling slightly sick. I had gone pale and jittery the moment the message had arrived that the company of the Prince of Ithilien, his new wife and the King of Rohan were approaching the Rammas Echor. It was the fifteenth of May. The earliest date we had expected the wedding company from Edoras to arrive in Minas Tirith. I wondered if Éomer had been as impatient as I was…

Waiting for the guests to appear in the white arc of the tunnel leading from the sixth to the seventh circle of Minas Tirith, my thoughts went back to the past four weeks.

* * *

Somehow the long weeks of waiting had passed. Sometimes time had slowed down to an agonizing crawl. Sometimes the hours had flown by.

Helmichis had started to teach me another set of runes. The Cirth. The writing used for every day purposes in Rohan. The Rohirrim do write. The fact that the memories of their people is chiefly kept alive in songs passed down from generation to generation does not necessarily mean that a people are illiterate. Well, most people in Gondor and in Rohan **are** illiterate, of course. But even in Rohan there are scribes. Even in Rohan certain offices cannot be filled by someone who cannot read or write – for example the major domo of Meduseld or the treasurer have to know their letters. While most books are actually written in tengwar and in Gondor tengwar is used for every kind of writing, in Rohan they prefer the simpler, straightforward style developed by the dwarves. Cirth. _As if I had not enough to learn already…_

Elrohir and Elladan had resumed training me in the use of sword, dagger, bow and arrow. I was getting used to being beaten black and blue. Well, it was not quite as bad as it had been in October last year. Sometimes I did not fall over my own feet anymore. One memorable day Arwen joined in the fray. Aragorn, Míriël and I were equally horrified. But I got the bruises to go with the horror. Arwen does not have the strength of her brothers and not much real fighting experience. She makes up for that with speed and really mean moves. _And how is that appropriate behaviour for a queen? _If I can help it, I will never fight her again.

_How long can it take them to ride from the Great Gates to the Sixth Circle?_

Then a message had reached us from the Shire. Merry and Pippin would hopefully be able to reach Ithilien in time for the wedding celebrations. Sam and Rosie had been married on the first of May and Merry and Pippin had set out the day after the wedding. With a little bit of luck they would be in Minas Tirith on the 24th – and the date that had been set for the celebrations of Éowyn's and Faramir's wedding was the 25th. If Merry and Pippin had not been tall enough to ride real horses due to the powers of the ent-draught, they would never be able to make it on time. Riding ponies it takes at least forty days from Hobbiton to Minas Tirith. Even with horses the bets were about equal between those who claimed the Hobbits would be on time and those who thought it impossible for two halflings to travel from the Shire to Ithilien in twenty-three days. It was of course Gimli who had instigated the bets on the Hobbits' arrival. Míriël had forbidden me to participate. Betting is apparently another activity not suited to young ladies of noble birth – or young ladies betrothed to the king of Rohan (even if not of noble birth). I rather thought that was a shame. It was as safe as a bet can be. _Hobbits not being in time for a feast – I ask you, how can you possibly lose that bet (if anyone is stupid enough to hold against you that is)._

_How long can it take them to dismount and hand over their horses to the grooms of the Guards?_

Gimli and his bet: this leads directly to the other highlight of the past weeks. That had undoubtedly been the arrival of Legolas and Gimli in Minas Tirith – each with a company of their own people. They had been hard at work on Faramir's mansion in the Hills of Emyn Arnen. It had to be ready when the newly-weds would arrive. Ready, beautiful and safe. As even the king was satisfied with the security measures by now, it was probably the safest place in all of Gondor apart from Minas Tirith or Dol Amroth. I was looking forward to seeing it very much. I had heard so much about it already. I had even seen plans of the building and the gardens. The house is about twenty-three miles (as the crow flies) south-east of Minas Tirith, situated on the south-western slopes of the Emyn Arnen, overlooking the Anduin, South-Ithilien and the fields of Lossarnach. They have even built a new bridge across the Anduin there. It is only a wooden bridge, but it is so well made that horses can use it. They tried to name it Arnen Bridge, but people had already started calling it "Faramir's bridge" and that name kind of stuck. It's still a day's ride from Minas Tirith, but without Faramir's bridge you'd have to take the path on the eastern banks of the Anduin to Osgiliath and then head back to the south-west, that's fifty-six miles, not twenty-nine. A fast horse can make forty miles a day. Only a Meara or an elvish horse will be up to more.

_Where the hell are you, Éomer?_

On the first of May Sorcha and Solas had arrived in Minas Tirith. God, it's wonderful to have her here! I am still not used to having servants, bodyguards and ladies-in-waiting. I am comfortable with Helmichis and Ini. I don't know why, but I am wary about the Lady Elaine. She is intimidating. Until I am sure where her loyalties really lie, I don't feel all that comfortable with her as my chief lady-in-waiting. Though I am relieved to have her, of course, because she is such a good healer and I trust her completely in that capacity. At the moment I don't see much of her. She spends most of her time at the Houses of Healing. Anyway, Sorcha: about Sorcha there is no doubt in my heart at all. Sorcha I trust to the hell and back. And what's best about her is that she knows real life. There are simply things that the Lady Míriël won't or can't tell me about life in Gondor and Rohan. Sorcha can and does.

_Éomer… where the bloody fucking hell are you???_

* * *

Steps! And voices! There's movement in the tunnel leading up to the Citadel! The heralds who had taken place at the sides of the arc of white marble that frames the tunnel-opening raise their golden clarions to their lips! My heart goes thumpety-thump.

There!

I stare. I blink.

He's taller than I remember him. Broader. More solid. Muscular. Real. His face… his demeanour… he's sterner, harsher… he's King.

Oh, God, he's real!

I blink again, and suddenly he's exactly as I remember him.

A lion's mane of hair: golden, dun and darker, barely reaching his shoulders. The beard, neatly trimmed a dark dun colour. His eyes. His eyes: almost black. I swallow heavily and I feel a slight trembling spreading through my body.

He looks around. He hesitates. He sees me. His gaze grows hot.

I can see his lips quiver with the hint of a sigh – a sigh of desire?

* * *

Then Éomer walked towards the King and Queen. He bowed deeply to Aragorn and Arwen, and then dropped a delicate symbol of a kiss on the back of the queen's hand. The next in line to be greeted was Lord Húrin of the Keyes, and then it was Prince Imrahil's turn and the Lady Míriël's.

Suddenly the King of Rohan stood in front of me. For a moment our eyes met and I knew it was still there. The fire, this searing fire deep in my heart, deep, deep in my bones, the fire that says, he's the one, he's the one and only. Curtsy. After an inappropriately long moment of staring at each other I remembered that I was supposed to curtsy: deeply, prettily, and gracefully.

I bent my knees. I felt all shivery and wobbly. But I managed a curtsy. It was certainly not pretty, deep or in any way graceful. But I did not fall flat on my face. Éomer took my hands in his. His grip was warm and strong. He drew me up, keeping a firm hold on my hands. Our hands seemed to share a heartbeat, a hot, fast, heavy pulse. I raised my eyes to look at him. Amber flecks danced in his eyes. Standing so close to him, his lips revealed their secret between the well-trimmed borders of dark beard. Sensuous, wide, tender lips. I gasped lightly, desiring nothing so much as a kiss, a deep, deep, _deep_ kiss from those lips.

"Lothíriel," he whispered, his voice dark and like a soft song in the trees. His voice was even more beautiful than I remembered. A shiver ran down my back. _That day on the field of Cormallen… when I was not sure how to address him…_Suddenly I remembered how to smile.

"Éomer," I replied, my voice sounding husky and out of breath.

It felt like being caught in a slow motion shot of a movie. Éomer – close up. Then, Éomer smiling. Then, Éomer letting go of my hands…

Reluctantly Éomer released my hands and turned to greet Elladan and Elrohir and then the other high lords and ladies of Gondor who made up the reception for Faramir, Éowyn and the King of Rohan.

* * *

I only came back to reality when I found myself in Éowyn's arms. Apparently the new lady of Ithilien did not give a damn about appropriate greetings. "God, Lothy, it's good to see you!" She told me, trying to break me in two in the process of hugging. Finally she released me and stepped back into her husband's arms. I blinked stupidly at Éowyn and Faramir. _Faramir and Éowyn…husband and wife… the Prince and the Princess of Ithilien…_Éowyn winked at me. Faramir – his arm around Éowyn – blushed slightly, but tightened his hold on his wife. Damn, but married life agreed with those two!

I had missed Éowyn for the better part of the last eight months. Now I wished Éowyn, Faramir, Aragorn, Arwen, Imrahil, Míriël – hell, all of my friends and loved ones – except Éomer - to the farthest, hottest, most god-forsaken part of Harad imaginable. Or maybe Erlangen, Germany.

* * *

There was a banquet, of course. To honour the King of Rohan and the Prince and of Ithilien and his wife. The Hall of Merethrond was decked out festively. There were boughs with cherry blossoms and sweet smelling lilacs scattered across the tables. But it was only a dinner. Only a taste of the celebrations to come.

Eowyn wore a gown of silver. Her pale golden hair was braided into a crown and adorned by a sheer silvery veil. It befits a married woman to cover her hair. The beauty of her hair belongs to her husband and only to him. The thin veil made Éowyn's hair shimmer only more enticingly. Faramir's eyes were so happy that there was almost no grey left in the blue of his iris. His hair was braided back on the sides of his head, bringing out the noble structure of his bones. When I looked at them – Faramir and Éowyn – my breath caught in my throat, so beautiful they looked together. So _together_ did they look. They looked even more _together_ than they had looked when they had arrived at the Citadel this afternoon.

_You may guess the reason why…_

* * *

Éomer was allowed to be my dinner partner. This resulted in me eating next to nothing. Éomer ate well. I think that's probably the difference that makes men better warriors than women. They don't allow little things such as love to interfere with their appetite. Therefore they have more energy when things get… hot.

Although I don't think Éomer did really notice what it was that he ate. I guess we could count ourselves lucky that the hobbits weren't there yet. They would have noticed Éomer's absentmindedness, too. By now I know about hobbit jokes. They would have tried to make Éomer eat stones or spiders.

…well, he probably wouldn't have noticed.

Talking was difficult. _If only we could have gone straight to bed to get reacquainted… hell, to really get to know one another finally!_ Instead we sat side by side. Across from a very happy, pregnant Arwen and a very happy, foolishly grinning Aragorn. Across from a _very_ relaxed, _extremely _soft spoken Éowyn and very satisfied looking, almost _smugly_ grinning Faramir.

Not to mention all the other Lords and Ladies of Gondor who were present.

Well, I couldn't really fault them. It _was_ the time of the spring council. So they _had_ to be at Minas Tirith. And they really _did_ like Faramir. Hell, _I _liked Faramir. I sat next to Éomer. I felt the warmth of his thigh against mine. We had barely had a chance to talk. Aragorn, Faramir, Húrin and Lord Forvomir of Lossarnach were talking to Éomer about the spring council, the situation in Harondor, the legal status of the dwarves at Aglornond and you know what. I sat next to Éomer. I could barely see his face without turning around in a very inappropriate way. I heard his voice, deep and serious, as he told about his dealings with the dwarves. I felt the pressure of his thigh against my leg. Warm, strong, heavy. I could even smell that scent that I had almost forgotten during the last eight months, but which I had immediately recognized. Éomer's scent. Spicy. Male. Mixed with the fragrance of horse and vetiver, which he liked in his shampoo or soap or whatever. But more than that. Alive. Warm. Delicious. Éomer.

I clenched my teeth. Apart from an unhinged desire to ravish him on the spot, I felt choked with questions. _Do they still want to kill us? How **are** you? How is Rohan? How are our people? How are the dogs? Do they come when you call them? Has it become easier to be king? _

But I could not ask any one of those questions. The only thing I had to tide me over this evening was the feeling of Éomer's thigh pressed against my thigh under the table, while we talked about everything and nothing. That dizzying scent, almost hidden beneath the perfumes of the ladies and the smell of roasted meats. The sound of his voice that I had missed so much.

* * *

When dinner was over, my knees were weak and trembling. It was almost difficult to get up and accompany Éowyn and Arwen outside on a stroll in the moonlight.

We walked across the place of the fountain and slowly made our way to the front of the Embrasure. The night was mild and scented with the perfume of spring. There was a full moon hanging above the blue shadows of the ridges of Mount Mindolluin. The stars were sparkling above us like diamonds spread out on black velvet. For the hundredth time I tilted my head back and searched for the few constellations I knew. The few constellations I knew from Germany, Europe, earth. It never ceased to amaze me that the stars were actually the same here as they were back on earth – at least as far as I could tell. There was the one we call "the chariot" in Germany, _ursus maior_, and the great hunter, _Orion_, the heavenly "W" – _Cassiopeia_, and of course, barely more than a blotch of light – the Pleiades.

I inhaled deeply. A shivering, deep, wonderful breath. I realized that Arwen and Éowyn had been patiently waiting for me to get back to reality. I turned to my friends and I felt a very broad, very wry grin spread across my face.

"Sorry." I said finally. The smile was audible in my voice.

"Take your time," Arwen said, her voice deep, clear and amused. She was leaning with her back against the white wall of the Embrasure. She wore a warm cloak, but it had drifted away from her front, and I could see that she was stroking her stomach in the pale light of the moon.

Éowyn moved closer to Arwen, and – perhaps it was the shelter of darkness, perhaps it was the euphoria of newly wed sex – she reached out for Arwen and gently placed her hand on Arwen's belly. "How does it feel?" Éowyn asked. "Do you feel them already?"

Arwen laughed at that, a happy, relaxed laugh that grew deep inside of her. Since Aragorn was back, she was at ease again, and more beautiful than ever (if that is at all possible).

"I _do_ feel them. Only a little bit – after all, it's only the fifth month. It feels… like bubbles in my belly, rising up and bursting against my stomach. A tiny tickling feeling. Like a carp tasting your skin when you are swimming in a deep pond. Or like the softest of waves lapping against your skin – only from the inside. You know that you are no longer alone in your body. That's probably the most amazing thing about it." Unexpectedly Arwen reached for my hand and placed it underneath Éowyn's on her belly. I did not feel anything at all, only Arwen's warm, still flat stomach, and Éowyn's cool, slender hand above my own. Arwen laughed again, a small, but completely happy laugh. "And you feel so great. It's as if you have consumed a whole bottle of sparkly Dorwinion white. But all you have had is a glass of water. I can't describe it. You'll have to try it out for yourself."

I drew back my hand and felt my stomach drop a foot or two. I would. My heartbeat echoed in my ears. My monthlies were back to a regular rhythm of feeling miserable four to five days once a month. If all went well I could easily be pregnant a year from now.

Éowyn had drawn back from Arwen, too. If I was not mistaken she had covered her mouth with her hands to stifle a breathless, girlish laughter. _Newly weds…_

I admit I was envious. But I was also happy to see my friend so… in love. Completely, absolutely, breathlessly, stupidly in love. "So what is it," I asked. "What is it that's best about Faramir, Prince of Ithilien?"

Éowyn giggled like teenager. "You mean, apart from the fact that he is well suited for every indoor activity imaginable and very ingenious with it, too?"

I groaned. Arwen gasped. Éowyn giggled the way only a woman can laugh who is completely satisfied. For a moment we stood in silence, our backs to the white walls of the Embrasure, our heads tilted back, our eyes on the stars, our thoughts with our men.

Then Éowyn added – this time very serious. "The best thing about him is…" Her voice dropped to a husky whisper. "The best thing about him is – that he lets me be."

My heart gave an almost painful thump in my chest. _Yes…_ I inhaled slowly. Cool and sweet, a night of spring. A night of spring in Gondor in the fourth age of the world. _Yes. That's it. That's exactly it._

"He loves me the way I am," Éowyn whispered to the stars, and to us, her friends. "Just the way I am. And he will let me be – just the way I am. Me. Éowyn. _He will let me be._"

* * *

**More A/N:**

**Eilenach:** Yes, you are right. I have made a note and will change the chapter accordingly when my beta gets to it. Thanks.


	81. A Wedding in Ithilien

**81. A Wedding in Ithilien**

Southern Ithilien is a lot like Tuscany or the Provence. Soft green hills, dark green cypress trees, a true blue sky – it looks like a painting by van Gogh come alive.

The new white villa of the Prince of Ithilien and his lovely lady is situated on the south-western slopes of the Emyn Arnen. You have a magnificent view from their terraces – to the southwest you can see the Anduin glittering in the sunlight and behind the Anduin the lush green fields of Lossarnach and the Lebennin beckon and to the south there is Southern Ithilien, with its orchards of almond and olive trees, and its fields of sunflowers.

The dark shadows of the Ephel Dúath seem far away, almost insubstantial.

* * *

"The gardens will need a few years yet to become really beautiful," Legolas was saying apologetically, gesturing to scrawny bushes and thin young trees. Gimli had been in charge of the buildings, Legolas had been responsible for the shaping of the gardens. If I didn't know better (but do I?) I would have been inclined to say that the architects of those beautiful English landscaped gardens and parks must have had an elf or two to advise them. Even though the gardens of Faramir's villa had only been planted this spring, you could see a hint of what they would look like in a few years' time.

"This is amazing," Éowyn said simply and smiled at her husband. Faramir positively glowed at this praise. But Éowyn was right. It was amazing. The white villa looked as if it had been there forever, on that soft green hill above the Anduin and the green fields of Ithilien.

Legolas had found the perfect place for the new palace. The mansion of the Prince of Ithilien had been built on the shoulder of the slopes of Emyn Arnen, it had a beautiful view and there were enough trees already there to frame the villa in a way that the gardens did not look too barren even during their first season of growth. There was also enough room for high white walls and turrets as defences against any marauding orcs or other evil creatures – be they robbers, corsairs or soldiers from Harad.

Sadly times were still too dangerous to simply build a villa, shape a garden and leave it at that. Security would remain the number one priority for some time to come yet. There was non building or trading to be done without thinking about security first. Therefore it had not been the view that had been the deciding factor in choosing this spot as a building site. It had been the fact that you could anyone approaching for some miles on every side. It could also be easily secured with walls and small towers. And with the new wooden bridge across the Anduin there was a quick escape route. The bridge could be collapsed easily, too, leaving any foes on the far side of the Anduin with no way to cross save at Osgiliath. And Osgiliath is about the best defended city of Gondor. The people of Gondor have taken the three attacks on their legendary city of stars as a personal insult.

Éowyn appreciated the safety features just as much as Faramir's personal reasons for choosing this place for their home. He had wanted to give his beloved the wide and free spaces she was used to from her home. He wanted her to feel at home in Gondor and not like a caged bird.

In a city with the Mindolluin a blue shadow to the west, the Ephel Dúath looming darkly to the east and the green hills of the Emyn Arnen to the east, it would have been difficult for someone like Éowyn not to feel slightly claustrophobic. Here, not even thirty miles to the south of Osgiliath, the mountains were opening out towards southern Gondor. It was a soft southern country, not at all like Rohan with its wild and lonely plains between the high peaks of the Misty Mountains and the white glaciers of the Ered Nimrais. But it was a wide and open country nevertheless.

Looking at Éowyn, smiling and relaxed in Faramir's arms, I knew she would be happy here. Especially since Faramir had been smart enough to make household security Éowyn's responsibility. I think he thought that would make their home as safe as can be, but keep Éowyn away from real mischief. I thought that was a pretty clever move. But on the other hand, Éowyn was a very clever woman.

"I can see even today how beautiful the gardens will be in a few years," I offered and smiled at Legolas. "You have a different theme for every terrace, haven't you? So it will not be one garden, but many different gardens when it is finished?"

Legolas' eyes lit up. "Exactly! In the end you will be able to pass from terrace to terrace and discover something new and beautiful on each level."

"I think you will have many visitors just to see the gardens," I commented. Legolas smiled happily. I shook my head lightly, feeling a little bemused. I had not known how much the elf had longed for an opportunity such as this. Somehow I had only seen Legolas the warrior, Legolas the hunter and Legolas the ambassador from Erin Lasgalen. I had not known that Legolas the gardener even existed. "You will have to get Sam to come and visit," I told Merry and Pippin.

It was early in the afternoon of the twenty-fourth of May. Somehow the hobbits had managed to arrive on the twenty-second. Apparently they had changed horses as often as possible and ridden as if pursued by a hoard of winged nazgûl. Anyway, after dinner on the 22nd, the doors of the living room of the royal apartments had opened to admit two dishevelled, gleeful hobbits.

Merry looked at the various levels of the gardens. Although he was not a gardener by heart, as a hobbit he had an eye for growing things. "Yes, Sam would love this place," he said. "But for the foreseeable future no one and nothing will get him out of the Shire and away from his Rosie." Pippin snorted with laughter. "They look exactly like you two," Pippin said and pointed his finger at Éowyn and Faramir. "Gooey-eyed and completely gone on one another. It's a wonder they manage to leave their bed every morning." Faramir looked a little taken aback at the hobbit's pertness, but Éowyn only chuckled and tightened her hold on Faramir's hand.

I was glad that Arwen was not present. She had gone to bed after lunch to put up her feet for a bit. With the pregnancy she needed more sleep than usual. Had she been here, I would have been surrounded by married bliss to the point of choking. "Yes, they look rather relaxed, don't they?" I said and raised an eyebrow at the couple admiring the view from their terrace. Éowyn only grinned at me. "Patience, Lothy. Your time will come. In a little over three months." She paused, a thoroughly evil grin spreading across her face. "That is, if my dear brother is up to it." Faramir blushed prettily at that – turning my attempt of glaring at Éowyn into a rather unhinged giggle. A giggle that turned into a gasp as Éomer came around the corner, accompanied by Gimli.

Éomer's dark gaze lingered on me. Heat rose up inside of me. It was almost like a caress. I swallowed heavily, my heartbeat quickening. _Three months!_ How was I supposed to survive that?

Pippin looked from Éomer to me and back again, sniggering. Merry grinned broadly. As did Éowyn, Faramir and Aragorn – who was the only one who had the grace to turn away and hide that grin. Only Legolas kept a straight face. I absolutely _live_ for entertaining my friends.

But Éomer quickly walked towards me and took my hand firmly into his; drawing me against him much in the same manner as Faramir had taken hold of his wife. Thank God that Míri stayed with Arwen and that Elaine was with Sorcha and Solas, playing with some dwarvish building blocks. Míri and Elaine would make even Éomer behave.

"This property is amazing," Éomer said. "It doesn't look it, but I think it's easier to defend than most mountain keeps." "And it has an excellent escape route," Éowyn added. The non-existing escape routes were the big problem of the Rohirric mountain keeps. Gimli squared his shoulders, grinning smugly. Legolas smiled indulgently down at his friend. In a way the building of Faramir's mansion had been a competition between those unusual friends. Faramir couldn't have gotten a better deal with a dwarf and an elf set on outdoing one another in the building and devising of mansion and gardens.

* * *

The villa was already decked out festively for the feast tomorrow. There were garlands of flowers and leaves, long tables covered with white linen, torches set around the terraces, lanterns suspended from the trees and the kitchens were working non-stop in the preparation of all kinds of Gondorian and Rohirric delicacies necessary to celebrate the union of the Steward of Gondor with the royal family of Rohan.

It would be the party of the year in Gondor.

Faramir was the darling boy of high society in Gondor. Everyone would be here tomorrow. To see **the** couple. I would have thought that Aragorn and Arwen would be **the** couple in Gondor. But strangely enough, they were not. Perhaps they were simply too far above even the Gondorian high society – Elendil's heir and Elrond's daughter. Not even the most exalted lords and ladies could identify with this king and this queen. But Faramir everyone knew and loved. He was the hero of his people. And Éowyn was already a legend.

I relaxed against Éomer's warmth behind me. If I was allowed to stay this close to Éomer throughout the feast, I thought I could perhaps really enjoy myself. But even with Míriël and Elaine hounding me about the proper behaviour for young noble women of Gondor – as long as I could even _look_ at Éomer from the distance, I would be happy. Looking into his dark eyes, hearing his dark voice, smelling the spicy fragrance that clung to his body made me realize just how much I had missed him. Looking at him, just plain looking at him was heaven.

So I was actually looking forward to the feast no matter what would happen. And it would be interesting enough even discounting Éomer, I had to admit. I would get a really close look at the Gondorian high society. I had met some of the lords and ladies who would be there already, and by now I knew the names of the Gondorian provinces and their lords and ladies by heart. It would be interesting to see them, all in one place. To watch how nobility worked in real life.

Because Faramir had insisted on a "modest" affair, only the overlords of each fiefdom of Gondor would be present – and several special guests, relatives or personages of political importance. There would be even some people present who were simply friends of Faramir and Éowyn, and not important at all.

* * *

I went over the list in my mind.

Gondor has twelve provinces. Andrast, Lefnui, Pinnath Gelin, Anfalas, Morthond, Lamedon, Dol Amroth, Tolfalas, Lebennin, Lossarnach, Ithilien and Anórien. Among them Ithilien, Anórien and Dol Amroth are the most important provinces. Ithilien and Anórien were historically the fiefdoms of the sons of Elendil, Isildur and Anárion, but during the rule of the stewards, Dol Amroth grew in importance.

Therefore the following lords and ladies would be present tomorrow:

Prince Imrahil and Lady Míriël, of course.

Húrin of the Keyes who was the Duke of Anórien and his lovely lady, Morenna, along with their daughter, Morwen.

Lord Forvomir of Lossarnach, the oldest son of Forlong the Fat. Forlong had died in the war.

Lord Pinnar of Lebennin and Lady Clauren.

Lord Angbor of Lamedon.

Lord Dorlas of Tarnost and his son Dervorin.

Lady Míriël's ladies-in-waiting, the ladies Lalaith, Eiriën and Lasbelin. I frowned. The ladies-in-waiting of the queen would be there, too, but I couldn't really keep them straight yet. There were seven of them, including Lady Míriël. However, they would be in attendance. Lord Angbor was looking for a wife – his lady had died in childbed last summer. And Dervorin was not married yet, either.

Then there were the parents of Lady Elaine, the Lady Iûlieth Ivriniel and the Lord Cristion.

Lord Lorin of Tolfalas.

The sad Lord Duinhir of Morthond who had lost both of his sons in the war.

Lord Golasgil of Anfalas.

Lord Hirtith of Pinnath Galen, the son of Lord Sirloin the Fair who had been killed in the war, too.

Duke Herion of South Gondor, of course. There was not way to keep politics completely out of this.

Lord Hall car of Lefnui – he was the son of Halberd the Dúnadan who had died in the war. Aragorn had enfeoffed the provinces of Lefnui and Andrast to Dúnedain from the North since their original lords had refused to aid Minas Tirith during the war. Galion was now Lord of Andrast, Hallacar Lord of Lefnui.

The King and Queen, of course, first and foremost.

Éomer. And some dignitaries from Rohan, namely Erkenbrand, the third marshal of the Mark and Lord Eutharich along with his daughter, Eugilin who was in need of a husband.

Legolas and Gimli.

Elladan and Elrohir.

Merry and Pippin.

Some friends from Faramir's company who had survived the slaughter at Osgiliath last year.

The captain of Faramir's guard, Beregond. His son, Bergil. Lord Imrahil's squire, Gawin. Éomer's squire, Frohwein. Erkenbrand's squire, Aelfriv. Númendil, as Éomer's page.

Well, there would be certainly enough people around to make for a lively party.

* * *

"What are you thinking about so hard?" Éomer's voice was soft, and very close to my ear. I shivered against him. _How about we skip the party tomorrow and hide in one of Gimli's cute towers?_ "I just thought about who will be here tomorrow." I smiled up at Éomer. "I have learned the names of the provinces of Gondor and their ruling lords by heart." Éomer grinned at me. "Has the winter been really that long and boring?"

I tried to keep my face straight. "Pure agony. By now I read and write tengwar and the Cirth quite fluently."

It was Éowyn who made a face at that. "What a headache! You have to really love my brother if you are willing to undergo such trials for his sake."

I smiled at Éomer. A deep and silent smile. I felt him inhale deeply. _Did my presence affect him in the same way as it affected me?_

"Now that we have seen the wonders of Faramir's villa, how about some tea and tírithel?" Aragorn suggested. "And perhaps a game of cards? What do you say, Legolas, Gimli? Are you willing to raise the stakes?"

Gimli's dark eyes glinted mischievously. Pip's eyes sparkled. "What's the game?"

"A wicked version of poker that is said to have been introduced by the corsairs of Umbar." Faramir replied. "I would not advise you to try it. Especially not if Aragorn is playing. I think Legolas has lost a year's income already."

We retired to the – living room? drawing room? saloon? – anyway, a comfortable room with a large fire place (white marble), a long table suitable for card games with many players, easy chairs arranged around small tables set with chess boards and other games. There were high glass windows and a large chandelier suspended from the ceiling so that even at night the room would be lit bright enough to continue playing and talking at leisure.

* * *

The feast started before noon.

A group of musicians and jugglers simply started playing. The house guests were served sparkling white wine with a syrup of dark red berries. Sort of like Kir Royal á la Ithilien.

The other guests arrived almost at the same time. Most of them were staying in Minas Tirith. They must have set out in the middle of the night to be here at noon. But here they were, richly attired ladies and lords, in brocades and silks and velvet. Drenched in perfume. But the fragrance of horse sweat clung to the men nevertheless, and there was a powder of road dust adorned some of the women. But they came. One and all. For Faramir and Éowyn.

As unobtrusively as possible I tried to stay close to Éomer. Míriël was busy with watching Númendil on his first day as an adult - which unfortunately meant that she was watching me, too. Númendil acted today the first time as Éomer's page. And wasn't he sweet! Dressed in the livery of Rohan, he looked like a miniature Rider and he trailed Éomer like a little puppy. Míriël's gaze trailed Númendil – followed Éomer – found me – and she promptly frowned.

She nodded quickly to Elaine, and the Lady Elaine was at my side at once, leading my away from Éomer to introduce me to the various lords and ladies.

I don't think Éomer even noticed, cornered as he was by the lords of Gondor intent on discussing the situation of Harad and Khand and Nurn with the King of Rohan. This feast was the perfect opportunity to feel the ground for the upcoming spring council.

* * *

I gave the pretty lady Morenna a wan smile and successfully ignored the idle chatter of the young ladies Eugilin and Morwen. With politics and threats of war, would we ever have time for one another? My gaze drifted across the room towards Éomer. The King of Rohan was at the centre of a group of men involved in some heated debate. Númendil was standing patiently at his elbow, offering a goblet of white wine. For a moment Éomer's eyes met mine. For a dizzying second I knew exactly what he was thinking. _Riding fast and far, only the two of us, our bodies pressed against each other…_

Then he turned his back to me, forcing his attention on the grave monologue delivered by Duke Herion of Harondor.

I groaned and turned around myself. Just in time to notice a really strange expression on the face of the Lady Elaine. A cold, calculating expression. I frowned, but then the moment was gone and Elaine smiled at me charmingly. "Don't worry. The three months until your wedding will pass quickly." She told me, her voice warm with compassion. I nodded.

I still did not understand why the influential lady and powerful healer wanted to come with me to Edoras. I don't like things I don't understand. And with all that politicking, I find that I am getting very suspicious of people doing things for no apparent reason.

"If you will excuse me, Elaine, I think I will go and look for Éowyn." I smiled at Elaine, who inclined her head graciously. It was appropriate for me to spend time with Éowyn. It was not appropriate to spend my day clinging to Éomer.

* * *

Éowyn and Faramir were seated comfortably at one of the long tables on one of the terraces. It was a beautiful day, warm and golden, the air was filled with the promise of summer and the fragrance of roasts and sauces and other delicacies. The Steward of Gondor had for once extricated himself from any and all political debates. He had laid his right arm around his wife and was feeding her a salad of herring with a sauce of dill and yellow mustard. Around them their closest friends were gathered. Arwen was there, her plate heaped with food. She did not look left or right, but kept eating with single-minded concentration, watched by her bemused brothers. Beregond, the captain of Faramir's guard was there. Beregond had saved Faramir's life when his father had tried to kill himself and his son last year. To my surprise Helmichis was there, too. He was not at the table, but stood with his back to one of the white columns surrounding the terrace. Beregond was talking to him and there was the by now familiar slow smile on the broad face of my bodyguard.

Legolas and Gimli were comparing dishes with the hobbits. Between them there were about ten plates with different foods on the table. Erkenbrand and his squire Aelfriv were there, too, sitting with a lord whose features were vaguely familiar. Oh, yes, I recalled. That was Golasgil of Anfalas, and he looked familiar because he was distantly related to Prince Imrahil. But his hair was not quite as fair as the stunning white blond tresses of my adoptive father.

"Come and sit, Lothy!" Éowyn called out to me. "You have to try this food. It's delicious!"

Éowyn beckoned one of the servants over to us. "Please, would you get the Lady Lothíriel an assortment of these _aestithen_." The servant bowed and hurried away.

Éowyn gave me a brilliant smile. "I have the feeling I can eat all day today."

Faramir nuzzled her neck. "No, you won't dear heart. There will be dancing tonight. And I have plans…" He trailed off suggestively. I rolled my eyes.

"Where have you left my brother?" Éowyn asked, apparently noticing for the first time that I was sitting on the bench on my own. I grimaced. Now I knew what _"completely gone on one another"_ really meant. A complete inability to take in the surroundings.

"He is discussing the spring council with a number of Gondorian lords if I am not mistaken." In a low voice I continued. "I think Aragorn put him up to it."

Then I sighed and took up the spoon as a plate filled to the brim with various antipasti was placed in front of me. "Anyway, Míriël and Elaine decided that it was not appropriate for me to stay with Éomer – not that he would have noticed… so I came here, searching for some company, food and fresh air."

"It seems you have found what you were looking for," Pippin said with an impudent grin. "Try those aubergines with garlic. I bet Éomer will love that."

I raised my eyebrows, trying to glare at the hobbit. But I did eat the aubergines – which were swimming in olive oil and were ripe with garlic and a touch of cumin.

* * *

It turned out that it was easy to spend a day eating in the company of friends – especially with a pregnant elven woman with an appetite of three and two ever hungry hobbits among them. Legolas was a connoisseur of fine wines and very willing to aid me in the appreciation of the served beverages.

Suddenly the torches around the terraces and the lanterns in the trees were lit against the falling twilight and I wondered where the day had gone.

I had spent at least nine hours eating, drinking and talking with my friends.

Now it was time for some entertainment. Faramir disentangled himself from his wife, taking his leave with a prolonged and passionate kiss.

I could not suppress a longing sigh. _Where the hell had Éomer gone off to?_

Suddenly he was there. In a graceful fluid motion he slid onto the bench next to me. I gasped with the touch of his thigh and arm against me. I felt more than hear and answering intake of breath on his part.

From across the table the sound of Pippin sniggering drifted to my ears. I simply closed my eyes and rested my head against Éomer's shoulder. _To hell with propriety!_

"Your highness, my queen, my king, your highness, my ladies and lords of Gondor and Rohan. My friends from near and far. Above all, my beloved wife!" Faramir stood at the centre of the free area at the far end of the terrace. His face was soft in the light of the torches and candles. Behind him singers, musicians and various artists were waiting for their cues.

Faramir smiled at Éowyn and continued. His clear voice was warm with happiness. "I am happy and grateful that we are gathered here today to celebrate my union in marriage with the most wonderful woman of all of Arda: Éowyn of Rohan, and now Lady of Ithilien. I would like to ask all of you to lay at rest now all discussions of politics and economics. You have had sufficient opportunity for debate and discussion all day, and you will have ample time for it next week at the spring council in Minas Tirith. Tonight I would ask you to celebrate with me and my beautiful wife. Let us sing and dance and enjoy ourselves. This is our day of paradise. Leave all troubles and sorrows behind you and be glad! I want you to remember this day, because today, life is good."

He raised his goblet to the assembled. "Today, life is good!"

Suddenly there was a painful lump in my throat. I remembered when I had heard those words before. It had been two years ago when I had watched the extended edition of the movie "The Two Towers". Boromir had said that in the movie. For a moment I felt tears burning in my eyes. And I wondered if the shimmer in Faramir's eyes meant that Boromir had said those words once in real life, too.

Around me everyone lifted their glasses, mugs and goblets in answer. I felt my hand shaking slightly as I followed suit. _"Today, life is good!"_

"And now let there be songs, and dances and entertainment until the night is over – and of course, as much food as you can eat and as much wine as you can drink!" Faramir nodded at the hobbits and at Legolas.

A cheer swept around the terraces and the gardens and the house at large.

The musicians struck up a merry dance, and soon the empty space on the terrace was filled with swirling couples.

_Today, life is good…_

* * *

"Meet me on the other side of the house? Close to the turret?" Éomer whispered into my ear, his voice husky. A shiver ran down my back.

I nodded silently, my heart pounding.

"You go first."

I forced a smile and climbed out of the bench. My knees felt wobbly with desire. I had spent most of the day planning how I could manage a moment alone with my beloved. A moment for kisses and some words meant only for his ears.

First I went for the toilet. The first real toilet I had ever seen in all of Gondor. Yes, I admit it. Gimli asked me. I gave him a description. But he had seen what they did in Caras Galadhon before that. So he _could_ have come up with it on his own.

I left the villa through the front doors.

* * *

The drive way was lit with torches, and the windows were bright with candle light. There was no one to be seen. The great gates were shut. In the turrets to the sides of the gates lights flickered. Even tonight guards were on duty.

I looked around me, making sure that I was alone.

Then I swiftly walked to the far corner of the front gardens. Here the shadows were dark and shifting. It was cool and the din of many voices was muffled by the walls of the villa.

I inhaled deeply the soft sweet air of night. It was good to get away from the crowd. It was better still to know that in a moment Éomer would be here with me.

Suddenly I heard a strange noise.

My heart was in my mouth at once, beating so hard that I thought my chest would burst.

The noise seemed to come from the other side of the wall.

It was a scrabbling, clinking noise. Not loud. A scratching. A growl. Claws against a white wall.

The shadows seemed to deepen around me.A scream was suddenly lodged in my throat.

There it was again.

It sounded like claws scratching against stone. But this time they seemed to be farther up the wall.

Was that an evil-voiced whisper? A growl of a deadly command?

_Run away, Lothíriel. Or simply scream._

But I was frozen with panic. Unable to move. Unable to scream. Unable to think.

A shadow moved at the edge of the wall that did not belong to this soft night of summer...

* * *

**  
A/N: **I know I am evil... and I am away for the weekend. ;-) 


	82. Shadows

**Dedication: **The last chapter and this one are dedicated to Leany. Thank you!

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**82. Shadows **

Then the shadow was upon me before I could do anything at all – scream, run away, get into fighting stance. I was too slow. Just a fraction of a second. But too slow nevertheless.

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"Lothíriel!" Éomer's voice was an urgent whisper in the night and then he embraced me fiercely. He held me tightly against his chest, tilted up my head and kissed me firmly on my mouth. "Oh, Valar, how I have missed you!"

I felt myself go limp in Éomer's arms. My knees felt like jelly. Had he been the shadow on the wall? Where had he come from all of a sudden?

"What's the matter? You are shivering! Have you missed me so much?" Éomer held me at arm's length, his eyes gleaming in the shadows. I released my breath in a shivery sigh. "I don't know, there was such a strange noise a moment ago, outside, on the other side of the wall, and I thought I saw a shadow…" Éomer let go of my hands. This was not the answer he had expected. He cocked his head, listening intently. Then he turned around, his keen eyes searching the shadowy corners of the walls and the front of the house. After a moment's silence he shook his head. "I hear nothing but the noises of the feast and the breeze in the trees. Are you sure you heard something? I would have to alert the guards, and I would have to tell them that I intended to meet you here."

I stared at Éomer. My heart was pounding. Meeting me here in a somewhat clandestine fashion was not at all appropriate behaviour for a king and his betrothed. And here and now we were not alone with family and friends. I gulped, my heart pounding. I tried to remember exactly what I had heard, what I had seen. "I don't know," I said finally, my voice thin and shaky. "I think I heard a noise like claws against the wall. And then there was this shadow up on the wall… but perhaps that was you." I trailed off, sounding and feeling very uncertain about what to do.

Éomer smiled at me. "The shadow up on the wall I think that must have been me. I told the others that I wanted to have a look at the sentry walk of the defences on the other side of the estate, too." His smile turned into a grin. "Well, I think my sister and Faramir know where I was really headed. But I don't think the others have caught on." He pulled me closer again. "Don't worry, Lothy. Everyone's been on edge lately, what with the attack on Faramir and the situation with Harondor. But Aragorn killed the largest company of orcs in the vicinity. I don't think there's anything we have to worry about tonight."

I sighed deeply, wanting nothing so much as to relax against Éomer. But somehow it did not work. I remained tense and felt jumpy. "You are still tense, my love." Éomer whispered to me. His voice was husky. I buried my face against his chest, inhaling the wonderful male perfume that was Éomer. If I had imagined our first time alone after so many months of autumn and winter, I had certainly not envisioned a dark corner of Faramir's new estate. Or me quaking in my shoes with fear of something going bump in the night.

I felt Éomer's hands slide down my back, coming to rest just above my hips. His grip was strong. I felt my heartbeat speed up again, but for a vastly different reason than before. This feeling of being held by a warrior is absolutely thrilling. You don't even have the illusion that there's anything you can do to get away. You are at his sweet mercy. Éomer knew this, too. I felt him inhale deeply. _How long had I waited for this moment! How long had I waited for feeling Éomer close to me again!_

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"My lord Éomer. My lady Lothíriel," a soft, but cool voice penetrated the darkness of the night.

I closed my eyes. I felt how Éomer stepped back and turned around.

I opened my eyes again.

Framed by candlelight the Lady Elaine stood in the opened front doors of Faramir's villa.

For a moment I entertained the thought that I would have preferred looking at an orc. Well, perhaps not.

"I was feeling faint. I think I am not accustomed to the wine," I lied. The Lady Elaine nodded. "I thought as much." She extended her arm. "Come, my lady, I will escort you to your rooms. You will feel better by morning. And I think I have a tonic that will alleviate the condition."

She inclined her head towards Éomer. "It was very gracious of you, my lord, to stay with my lady Lothíriel until I could make my excuses."

Éomer raised his eyebrows for a moment of surprise. I don't think he knew Elaine very well. The healer smiled at us enigmatically. I walked towards her, allowing her to embrace me. For a horrible second I felt like shuddering at her touch. I realized that I did not trust her. Éomer bowed to her. "We are grateful to have such an accomplished healer with us, my lady."

"Thank you again, my lord. Now I ask you to excuse us for tonight."

"Good night, my ladies." Éomer said politely, but in his eyes was a hint of fire.

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Lady Elaine turned me around and led me straight into the house and upstairs to the guestrooms. The guestrooms were situated in the eastern wing of the villa on the first floor. They were sumptuous. State of the art. But I had not eye for the elegance displayed in the interior design of the villa at the moment. I kept glancing sideways at the Lady Elaine. Míri would have tried to explain about appropriate behaviour and would have chided me severely for being silly once again. Elaine kept silent. I would have preferred Míri's reprimands and admonitions.

"I will make your excuses to the others," Elaine told me after she had helped me out of my clothes. "Don't worry. Everything will be alright." She smiled at me reassuringly. I sighed. I had hoped that Sorcha would still be awake, but Solas had not been really well during the last days so Sorcha had probably gone to bed early. I nodded at Elaine. "Thank you."

After the door had closed behind Elaine, I quickly stripped of my shift and changed into my nightshirt. Above the dressing table with its ever present bowl and ewer there was even a gilded mirror. I sat down in front of the mirror after I had washed my face and brushed my teeth. I was very pale and my eyes looked almost as dark as Éomer's.

My thoughts were back in the shadows in front of Faramir's villa. Had it really been Éomer whom I had seen up on the wall? Somehow I thought that Éomer must have come from the right, and that shadow had been more on the left of my field of vision. And that noise…

Had I only imagined that?

For all of that I really felt slightly dizzy from eating and drinking all day, and my ears were buzzing with the echo of a day's and a night's partying. I rose to my feet and padded over to the fireplace. I stirred the half burnt logs and banked the fire so that it would burn slowly and gently into ashes until morning. Then I blew out the candles on the three armed sconce. Now only the small oil lamp on my night stand was left. I crawled into the bed and put out that light, too. At once the room was filled with dancing shadows and only the vestiges of light, red and golden flames of the small fire I had just made safe for the night. From somewhere outside the sound of music drifted up to my room. In the chamber adjoining my room I could hear the muffled crying of a child and then the soothing murmur of Sorcha's voice.

I stared at the ceiling of my room. The gleaming white colour of the plaster was lost in the dancing twilight of fire and shadow. _This was so not the way I had imagined to spend this night…worried and alone…_

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I woke early, as was my habit by now. Wake with the sun, and go to bed with the moon…

I washed quickly, without disturbing Sorcha or Ini. The water in the ewer was fresh and hot. The fire had already been rekindled by some unknown maid of Faramir's household. I could wash and dress on my own when there was no occasion to dress up for. With the mirror I could for once do my hair on my own, too. I really preferred getting ready that way – on my own that is – to Sorcha's astonishment and Ini's bewilderment. Today shirt, tunic and leggings would suffice, I thought and dressed comfortably.

When I was ready, I knocked softly at Sorcha's door. I opened the door and poked my head into the room. Sorcha was sitting at the window, busily embroidering something or other. Solas was sitting at her feet, winding and unwinding wool. The little girl looked better than the day before. Perhaps the cold that had threatened to turn into a fever had finally been beaten into a retreat. "I'm going down for breakfast. Do you want to come with me?"

Sorcha looked up and shook her head. "Oh, no, my lady. We have had breakfast, and with the Lady Elaine, no less." Sorcha preferred to stay in the background for formal occasions. She knew her place. Lady Elaine had surprised me with making a point of showing to the public that to her the rank of Mistress Sorcha of Tarnost was if not equal, at least similar to her own. I was looking forward to leaving Gondor. The Rohirrim are not as concerned about appearances and standing as the Gondorian high society. They are just as proud and conceited. But they don't make so much _fuss_ about it.

If I had not been thinking about the differences between Gondorian and Rohirric nobility, I might have noticed the three men engaged in serious and urgent conversation in the entrance hall. Captain Beregond, Faramir and Éomer. Beregond was gesturing agitatedly. Éomer's face showed an unusual tension.

I halted three steps away from the foot of the stairs. My heart gave a hard thump and I felt a heavy weight settle uncomfortably in the pit of my stomach. I frowned. Why is it always my heart racing and my stomach fluttering when I get scared or nervous? It feels horrible and it gets boring with the repeated occurrence of this condition. Why couldn't I start sneezing for a change? Or develop red spots? I pressed my lips tightly. I was procrastinating. If I moved another step or two, one of them was bound to notice me. If Éomer hadn't already spotted me…

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"Good morning, my lords," I said finally and descended the remaining stairs, joining the three men in the entrance hall. They bowed to me, just a small, perfunctory bow of early morning politeness. "Good morning, my lady," Éomer said. "Well met. We would like to talk to you." He turned to the others. "Late last night I met the Lady Lothíriel in front of the villa. She was feeling a little unwell from the exertions of the day and was waiting for the Lady Elaine. As I did not want her to stay alone in the darkness, I kept her company for a few minutes until the Lady Elaine arrived."

I frowned at Éomer. I thought we wanted to keep our meeting quiet? I widened my eyes at him, trying to convey that question with my look. He ignored me. When he went on his tone of voice was very serious. "My lady, would you please tell the Prince Faramir and the Captain Beregond what you saw and heard last night?"

My heart skipped a beat, and then raced on. I felt my mouth go dry. I swallowed heavily. "I was waiting for the Lady Elaine. I needed some peace and quiet… the day… the night had been long and noisy… so I went in front of the villa, and stepped out onto the lawn. I was looking towards the turret in the north-eastern corner, opposite of the gates. And… I thought I heard something. A noise on the other side of the walls. It sounded like claws scratched against the walls. And then, only for a moment, I thought there was a shadow up on the wall. It was just a second before Lord Éomer came around the corner. I thought I had only imagined everything." My heart was thumpety-thump in my chest. My thoughts were moving in slow motion. There was only one reason why Éomer would want me to tell anyone – and especially Beregond and Faramir – about what I had believed to have heard last night.

"What is the matter?" I asked. "It was only imagination, wasn't it? I mean, nothing happened last night, right?"

Beregond, a man hardened by his experiences of the war a year ago, looked at me for a long moment. His eyes were cool and considering. Considering if I posed a threat for his lord and his lady, no doubt. I knew the legend of Beregond's valour. His loyalty was absolute. I felt like fidgeting under his keen gaze. Then I felt more than I saw Faramir shake his head at his captain. Beregond did not change his posture, but somehow his gaze lost some of his power. "We found tracks this morning. They led right up to the walls, exactly where you said you heard that noise. There is a spot on the ground as if a package was tossed down on the ground from up on the wall."

I stared at the captain of Faramir's guard. My heart decided to skip the famous beat. I felt breathless and light-headed. _I had heard something. There had been something. Someone._

"What kind of tracks?" I asked.

Beregond gave me another long look. "Orc tracks. And not just any kind of orc foot prints. These were _uruk-hai_, orcs that belong to the elite troops that traitor of a wizard trained up last year."

"But what are they doing in Ithilien? I thought there were none of them left?" Unconsciously my right hand sought the wrist of my left and I began rubbing the thick pink scar tissues that circled my wrist. _Uruk-hai in Ithilien!_ My palms felt cold and clammy. I had been not even a yard away from orcs. From the same kind of orcs which had killed Boromir and had almost killed me. Not even a yard! I felt an icy shiver run down my spine.

Then another thought rose in my mind. _The shadow on the wall! Something had been thrown across the wall. Down to the orcs. Someone in here had been on that wall. To meet those orcs._

I felt my blood run cold.

That's another one of those pretty literary terms. It is actually a very uncomfortable feeling. You get cold from one second to the next. From the inside out. It feels a little bit like being in shock. I had to actually keep my teeth from chattering.

_Someone had been up on that wall to meet the orcs._

_There was a traitor in Ithilien._

And if I had not been so keen on smooching with Éomer, we might have caught the orcs.

Oh bloody fucking hell.

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"We have searched the villa," Beregond was saying. "Nothing seems to be missing. Especially none of the sensitive documents from the library or the safe."

"We will have to inform the king," Faramir added, his eyes a dark grey without the usual warm blue lustre. "He might have had documents or some other item of importance with him that he did not tell me about."

"But we should not mention this to anyone else," Beregond went on, his gaze stern – and fixed on me. "If there is to be any hope to smoke out the informant, it is necessary to take him or her unawares." He looked me straight into the eye. I stared back at the captain in his white uniform jacket and his black trousers and black boots. I did not flinch away from his gaze. But I felt uncomfortably reminded of the days when Aragorn had looked at me with suspicion in his eyes. I felt my cheeks burn with shame. If I only had insisted on alerting the guards…

Éomer stepped closer to me and gave Beregond a hard look. "My Lady Lothíriel won't tell any of this to anyone."

"She should have told of this sooner." Beregond replied. "But as that opportunity is lost to us, I hope she will act more wisely in this instance."

I bit my lip. Éomer's eyes flashed with anger, but he did not say anything. I knew that he felt the same way as I did. If only we had not been so greedy for a moment of intimacy…

"At least now we know that there is a perpetrator." Faramir interrupted. His voice was calm. "We have a chance to get him yet." He turned back to Éomer and me. "Was there anyone else around? Did you see anyone at all?" I thought back to the moments between shadows and desire of the last night. Then I shook my head. "There was this shadow. Then Éomer was suddenly there. And a moment later Lady Elaine was standing in the door…"

Faramir sighed. "Well, that would have been too easy. I suppose. Well, I will inform the king. Éomer, you should come with me. Lothíriel, I think my wife would be happy for some company." His eyes lit up in a quick flash of blue at the mentioning of his wife.

I nodded mutely and automatically dropped into a quick curtsy. Míri's drills were beginning to show off. "My lords, captain." I turned and walked away through the hall to the living rooms and terraces at the back of the house.

When I was already reaching for the door knob of the breakfast room, I hesitated. My hand rested lightly on the brass door knob that was shaped like the blossom of a water lily. There was a thought nagging at me at the back of my mind.

I realized that I had seen someone in front of the villa last night after all.

_I had never seen where the Lady Elaine had come from. She had simply been there, suddenly, in the light of the open door._

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**A/N:**

**I'm no angel: **I'm no angel either, but if youcomposesome interesting, well writtenreviews telling me what you think about this story I just might continue writing it.

**Raven:** ;-))

**Ravenclawwannabe: **Yep. Evil. That's me. And I am going to be too busy with real life during the next days to write chapter 83.

**TPfann333:** So you are still around, too? Wonderful!

**And what's with the rest of you? Scared stiff? Bored out of your wits? Any ideas about what is actually going on?**


	83. Pre wedding Anxiety

**A/N: **This one is dedicated to my friends all over the world. You know who you are. :-)

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**83. Pre-wedding Anxiety**

"Stand still, please, my lady," Darla of the Golden Scissors hissed around a bunch of needles firmly held by her thin lips. The "my lady" came out as an after-thought. "Please, my lady, don't fidget like that."

I clenched my teeth and forced myself to hold my breath and ignore the tugging and prodding that was going on all around me. I was being fitted for my wedding gown. Míriël had wanted a blue dress for me. But Darla had shaken her head very firmly and secured a place in my heart forever. "Green and gold." She had said appraising me with narrowed eyes. "And she's still too thin. All that weapons' training does nothing for a female figure."

I looked at myself in the mirror. I was thinner than I had ever been on earth. On earth I had always thought how wonderful it would be to be really thin. But looking at me now, I rather thought Darla had a point. God obviously meant me to have a rather female figure. With my hip bones standing out and my breasts almost disappeared, I would have loved to have some of my chubbiness back. I could only hope that Éomer would like the way I looked without clothes nevertheless. Somehow I had the feeling that he loved women with curves. But I did not sigh; I only pressed my lips together. I knew why I looked the way I did. Even if I was no great shakes at sword fighting, at least I could defend myself by now. Hopefully. And remembering the sound of claws against a white wall was all I needed to forget about any thoughts about my figure.

Firmly I turned my thoughts away from dark thoughts about orcs and traitors and back to the rich fabric that had been placed across my shoulders. Gold and green. Those colours would at least make my eyes shine. Normally my eyes are, well, sort of muddy. But with clothes in the right shades, my eyes suddenly appear more like green, and gold, almost like amber. I never noticed that back on earth.

"What kind of jewellery are you going to wear?" I came out of my reverie and looked at the imperious dressmaker. My stomach did a somersault. I knew that Gimli was working on the beryl I had been given by Glorfindel. "Green beryl," I said, feeling my heartbeat quickening. Darla considered my answer and then nodded slowly, her expression one of satisfaction. She was passionate about creating an impression, not only a queenly gown. When she was finished with me, I would look like a work of art.

Míriël, who had accompanied me to the fitting, looked up from her embroidery. An amused smile tugged at her mouth. She was used to the demands of the famous dressmaker. "Has Master Gimli said anything about the sword?"

The next question that was not at all beneficial for my pulse. I gulped. In Rohan not only rings but swords were exchanged at the wedding ceremony. Éomer would present me with the sword of Théoden. It would be my task to keep it safe for his first son. I in turn had to give Éomer a new sword so he could defend my life and my honour. I thought that this was an exciting and beautiful ceremony.

There was one problem however. The new sword. Where could I get a sword suitable for a king? Aragorn had tried to offer me his best sword smith for this task. Gimli had gone purple in the face. So it was agreed that Gimli should be the one to fashion Éomer's new sword. I was relieved and gratified. Then Legolas had spoken up with additional suggestions – he was no sword smith, but he knew enough about the work of elvish smiths and sword design to have ideas. Gimli was enchanted. He agreed quickly that the new sword for Éomer King should be an elvish-dwarven cooperation.

And that had been a really bad idea.

I could not keep track of the number of designs and models I had been shown up until now. I had listened for hours to Gimli and Legolas and their elvish and dwarvish assistants going on about the various kinds of steel that could be used, about the way silver or gold or wood could be employed for ornaments of the blade and the hilt. I had made only one suggestion. I had asked if it was possible to use a topaz or a dark piece of amber with golden highlights in the hilt to mirror the colour of Éomer's eyes. At the moment I could not tell whether they had paid any notice to this suggestion, or indeed if the sword would ever be finished between the dwarvish and elvish search for perfection.

This time, therefore, I did sigh. It was a deep heartfelt sigh. I looked at Míri and I guess I scowled. Her smile deepened to a grin. "I hope that there will be a new sword in time for the ceremony. But at the moment I rather doubt that Gimli and Legolas will ever agree either on the steel or on the design."

"Well, they have more than two months left to get it done," Míri said reassuringly. "That should be sufficient. And I think the king keeps an eye on them."

I shrugged helplessly. "I have no idea how much time you need to make a good sword. And the Lord of the Glittering Caves and his evil companion, Prince Legolas of Erin Lasgalen are more than a match for the king." Then I pursed my lips as a thought occurred to me. "But I entertain the hope that Arwen will check on them."

Míriël laughed loudly at this remark. The elvish queen of Gondor was known for her modest ways, but by now those close to the royal couple knew very well just how stubborn the queen could be. "Then you shouldn't worry, Lothy. Everything will turn out alright."

I exhaled deeply. My days were spent sighing. Sighing over wedding preparations. Sighing over not being able to see Éomer who was involved in the negotiations with Harad, Umbar and Harondor. Sighing about my studies. Tengwar, Rohirric, the Cirth, weapons' training and other lessons still were a daily ordeal.

I had tried to make myself useful in the wedding preparations. I remembered how much work the wedding of a friend back on earth had been. I knew from Arwen's wedding that a royal wedding as an occasion of state was much more work. So I thought it was my duty to help.

But I was quickly forced to realize that in spite of a winter spent studying the laws and customs of Gondor and Rohan and the management of a noble household I still did not know enough to even begin planning my own wedding. For example, the invitations. The wedding invitations were done by court scribes. Although my use of the tengwar and the Cirth was improving, I had to admit that I was not up to writing invitations. But to my utter embarrassment I had even been dissuaded from **signing** the invitations.

Every now and again a dizzying feeling of vertigo would grip me and I'd think things like _"I will never manage to be a good queen of Rohan"…_

"This gown will look magnificent on her," Míriël told Darla. The dress maker stepped back a few paces, narrowed her eyes and looked me up and down once more. For a long moment she said nothing and only looked at me. Her grey hair was tied back in a stern knot. She was a tall, thin woman, her face bony and angular, and her eyes light grey and very keen. Finally she smiled a quick, thin-lipped smile. "Yes," Darla of the Golden Scissors said finally. "She will be a beautiful bride. And a magnificent queen."

Suddenly I felt a lump in my throat. I had the feeling Darla was not talking about gowns.

"Thank you," I whispered, feeling heat suffuse my face. For a fleeting moment that elusive smile returned to the lined face of the dress maker. "You're welcome, my lady."

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The afternoon found me in the royal apartments, having tea with Arwen and Éowyn who had accompanied her husband to Minas Tirith for the spring council and the following negotiations with Harad.

We had managed to get rid of Arwen's and Éowyn's ladies-in-waiting. I still had trouble remembering the names of Arwen's seven ladies – apart from Míri, of course. Éowyn employed only three ladies, and three maid-servants, but I did not really know them either. One was a lady of Osgiliath; the other two were girls from lesser Rohirric nobility. Probably chosen because they would not dare to contradict Éowyn… Although my friend had softened considerably with love and a happy marriage, she was still fierce and independent of spirit.

When I was queen of Rohan I would have to choose a third lady-in-waiting. I was glad that Rohan's queens customarily only had three ladies-in-waiting. To have seven women constantly in attendance would drive me crazy in next to no time, I think. The thought of the magical number of twenty-one ladies-in-waiting which had been the custom of the Númenorean queens, made my blood run cold. As it was, I was happy with Sorcha, uncomfortable with the Lady Elaine and hoping that I would find a nice Rohirric lady to fill in the third spot.

We sat on a terrace in the inner courtyard of the House of the King. At the door and at the steps leading down from the terrace guards of the Citadel in their sombre black livery were stationed. Security was never lax at the moment. Wherever I went I had at least Rhawion and Helmichis with me. Since Helmichis had taken over my instruction in Rohirric, I felt much more comfortable with my bodyguards. Rhawion had begun helping with my weapons' instruction. This had made things easier between the older guard and me. I knew that Rhawion still blamed himself for failing to notice the archer that day on the peninsula of Dol Amroth. I knew that my bodyguards were not far away at the moment, though I was not sure whether they were just outside the door in the hall or patrolling the courtyard. The same went for Éowyn's guards, handpicked by Captain Beregond.

The sun was warm this day in early June, and the iced tea that had been served us a moment ago was delicious, cool and tart with the flavour of oranges and some southern blossoms. I was fidgeting. Arwen reclined on her chair, her slightly rounded belly plain in sight. She radiated with a calm happiness that only increased my nervousness. Éowyn grinned at me impudently. I had asked her to tell me about royal weddings in Rohan. Judging from her evil grin I did not need to be a mind-reader to know that Rohirric royal weddings were just as much fuss as Gondorian royal weddings. And the Lady of Ithilien had managed to get married with almost no frills and a lot of fun…

"Don't worry, Lothíriel. You will have a lot of fun at your wedding, too," Arwen told me comfortingly. I grimaced at her. "I thought that your _elda_ powers are gone?"

The queen of Gondor laughed at me. "Yes, they are. But it was an easy guess to figure out what you are thinking. You are really impossible, the two of you." Arwen shook her head at us. "As a young _elleth_ I think I spent centuries dreaming about every second of my wedding day. I would have spent a thousand years designing my wedding gown if Ada had allowed me to." I shuddered at hearing the word wedding gown. Éowyn was shaking her head. "I wonder if Aragorn knows what a frivolous wife he has… thinking about nothing but dresses and parties…"

"For _hundreds_ of years!" I added in mock reproach. "But thank you. I am looking forward to my wedding. You **know** I am." I sighed and swirled the cold tea around in my cup. "It's only… there's still such an awful lot I don't know about Rohan, about how the wedding will be… about what it will mean…" I trailed off.

It was not only the thought that I would be Éomer's wife in three months. I would also be crowned the queen of Rohan. My responsibility would not be only to my husband and later to my family, but to a people. I was nervous about being a wife and hopefully a mother. I was scared about being a queen and the head of the royal household.

Éowyn had apparently decided that she had teased me sufficiently. "Don't look so scared, Lothy. Rohirric weddings are fun. Really. It will be the event of the year in Gondor and in Rohan." I made a face at her. "That's why you got off so easily. With a nice informal party with family and friends mainly."

"And a few orcs camped just outside the walls," Éowyn added. When she had heard about the orcs and the traitor she had thrown a fit. Faramir had been hard put to persuade his enraged wife not to lead a company in search of the orcs herself. When the company he and Beregond **had** sent out had returned without any success or more information, Éowyn had been not amused at all.

"You wanted to tell Lothíriel about Rohirric weddings," Arwen reminded the white lady of Ithilien. Éowyn sighed, and smiled at me with an effort. I knew by now that the reason for her violent reaction to the presence of orcs near the mansion in Emyn Arnen was mainly fear for Faramir. She had told me with tears in her eyes how she felt about her happiness in these dangerous times. _Fragile…_ She had said. _He is, I am, our happiness is – so easily shattered by war and death…_

"You are right, my lady Arwen," Éowyn said. A sparkle of mischief returned to her eyes as if on cue. "Rohirric weddings and especially royal weddings are grand affairs. The wedding feast of my cousin, Théodred, went on for a week. And my mother told me when I was a little girl how beautiful the wedding of my uncle was."

Éowyn's smile softened with the memory of her family. Théodred's wife had died in childbed. Éowyn's mother grieved herself to death. Her uncle had been slain only a year ago in the war against Sauron. It was Faramir's love and understanding that made it possible for Éowyn to speak about her beloved dead at all.

"I have also been in on the planning of this particular wedding, I have to admit," Éowyn continued. I turned around and stared at my friend. Éowyn's smile broadened to a grin. "Well, my dear brother is hopeless at this, and your adoptive mother wanted to make sure that it will be a splendid occasion that does justice to the kingdom of Rohan and the fief of Dol Amroth."

Then she wrinkled her nose. "It's politics, of course. Those lords of Gondor and Rohan… and probably of Harondor and Harad and Khand have to be suitably impressed. I won't call those upstarts from Umbar lords when they are not present."

I did not comment on that. I did not groan and I did not sigh. There was only the cold feeling of fear inside of me that I would not turn out to be an adequate queen… that I would not manage to suitably impress anyone. _Éomer!_

Arwen – missing _elda_powers notwithstanding – seemed to have read my mind once more. Perhaps it was only the intuition of a friend. "Éowyn, I don't think Lothíriel needs to hear about that right now." Éowyn halted in her speech. And although she did not blush, she looked at me with a fairly sheepish expression on her face. "Sorry, Lothy. I guess I'd better simply tell you what we have planned by now. It's rather simple, actually. The first part of the wedding ceremony will actually take place here. Actually it should have been in Dol Amroth, but Aragorn wants to show that you are under his special protection, so it will be done here."

"What will be done here?" I asked, feeling confused and delighted at the same time.

"Then your guardianship, the _mund_, will be transferred from Prince Imrahil to Éomer. In Rohirric that's called the _brydgifta_. The bride price and the dowry will be paid accordingly to your betrothal contract." I nodded. I still felt strange about this. But it was the Rohirric law and custom.

"And what will happen then?" I asked. Éowyn sniggered. "My brother will hoist you on his horse and ride with you to Edoras… clinging to his arms rather than to the saddle and panting all the way, presumably. That's called the _brydhlōp_."

I felt my cheeks grow hot. "Éowyn," I croaked. "Really…"

Arwen shook her head at the shield-maiden of Ithilien and repeated, winking. "Éowyn, really!"

Éowyn grinned at me unrepentantly. "But don't worry, all of us will be there and watch out for you, so that my brother doesn't have his wild ways with you before you have exchanged the proper vows."

I groaned. I looked at Éowyn and tried to look disgusted. "Marriage does not agree with you, lady Éowyn, if it makes you tease poor innocent girls like that."

"On the contrary," Arwen remarked at her driest. "I think the joys of marriage have gone to her head and turned her brains to mush."

Hearing one of my silly expression uttered by the queen of Gondor had Éowyn staring at one another and then collapsing into laughter. When we had calmed down we raised our cups with the iced tea and smiled at each other: happy, relaxed smiles of friendship.

"Right. Before you were making stupid remarks about me and Éomer on a horse, Éowyn, I think you wanted to tell me about my wedding?" I reminded my friend. I really wanted Éowyn to tell me about the plans. Míriël tended to add a lecture to about everything she had to say to me these days. She took her responsibility as my adoptive mother very seriously.

"Well, when we reach Edoras, it's time for the wedding ceremony. We call it _brydðing_. You can also say _brydealu_ – though that refers more to the feast than to the vows. Anyway, the vows will be spoken on the terrace in front of Meduseld. First the swords will be exchanged, then the rings."

I groaned. I did not want to think about the swords. Arwen glared at Éowyn. And the miracle happened: Éowyn did not tease me about the swords. She simply continued. "Well, after the vows we will go into the hall for the feast: the _brydealu. _At the beginning of the feast you will drink the bridal cup with Éomer, the _brydeala_. Then there will be food and drink and singing and dancing… until it is time." She stopped and looked at me, waggling her eyebrows in a comical way. Then she made a face at me. "Only you won't be as excited as I was… because you know how what will happen…"

I felt heat return to my cheeks. I bet I was blushing once again. And I felt like heaving a deep sigh. I could as well have been a virgin, as excited and nervous as I was about finally **being** with Éomer. It had been a long year. All this waiting was turning me into a nervous wreck. This time Arwen only smiled an enigmatic smile and stroked her belly.

But Éowyn took pity on me and went on. "In Rohirric it's _brydlac _or _brydniht_. But we don't hold with such barbaric customs as presenting a bloody sheet to the witnesses."

I sighed in relief. Arwen stared. Éowyn favoured us with a wicked grin. "We make do with seven witnesses tugging both of you in on your first night."

I gasped. Arwen started laughing. Éowyn looked supremely content. That cat-ate-the-canary kind of look.

"In the morning you get your morning-gift, and don't ask me what my brother has in mind. I don't know it. And if I knew I wouldn't tell you." Éowyn smiled at me. Arwen smiled at me.

Suddenly my stomach was full of fluttering, happy butterflies.

I will marry the man I love.

I will really, really marry the man I love.

I had to blink quickly, because for some reason there were suddenly tears in my eyes.

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**A/N: **I hope you like this. All of you. And thank you for every encouraging comment. Always.


	84. Brydgifta

**A/N: **I am very sorry that you get this only today, but I have had some trouble online and as a result I have felt more like crying than like writing.

Yours Juno.

* * *

84. Brydgifta

I have no idea how I managed to get through the long, slow days of the hot summer of 3020, the last year of the third age. It was the hottest summer in living memory. For weeks on end no breeze stirred the leaves of the White Tree up at the Citadel of Minas Tirith. The Anduin's water levels were so low that the river could almost be crossed on a horse.

* * *

Negotiations with Harondor, Harad, Umbar and Khand had come to a standstill at the end of June, Nárië. No one was inclined to give an inch. At least there had been no threats of war yet. The traitor had not been found. But short and balmy as the summer nights in Gondor were, they were long enough for bands of orcs to issue forth from their caves in the Ephel Dúath, raiding and killing as they attacked one after the other of the few settlements which had been re-established in Ithilien.

Éomer had returned to Edoras when the negotiations with the neighbouring realms had been called off for the remainder of the summer. Aragorn was kept busy in courts and councils day in day out, getting more edgy as summer went on and the temperatures climbed to ever new extremes. It did not really help that he was forced to watch Faramir getting out and about all the time. Faramir spent most of his time patrolling the borders of Ithilien with his troops.

Éowyn had taken over the training of the women in Osgiliath and Emyn Arnen. In times of war it would be up to the women to hold the city of Osgiliath until reinforcements from Minas Tirith would be able to arrive. Women are the last ditch defences of a country. That's where you get the term "shield-maiden" from. It's the title for young women with no children to look after who are trained to fight should the need arise.

Originally the task of training the women of Osgiliath and Emyn Arnen had been appointed to Captain Beregond. But that had not worked very well. Somehow most women were too timid around the good captain for effective weapons' training. When Éowyn had taken over, suddenly things had gone smoothly. She was a living legend. And she kicked serious ass.

But the amazing thing was that now, when she finally had a military responsibility, she found that she actually preferred the more peaceful activity of re-building Ithilien. She could go on for hours about the strategic positions of villages, castles and forts to keep safe the borders of Ithilien. For weeks her favourite topic was roads. Good roads accounted for flourishing trade, happy and healthy people in the villages of Ithilien and safety: good roads would take Faramir's soldiers quickly where they were needed.

Éowyn was busier than she had ever been in her life. And happier, too. Somehow the rule of Ithilien ended up almost equally divided between the Prince and his lady. It would not have worked in any other province of Gondor. It's not that women are not important or that they are without influence. But a woman who is very visibly in a position of power is looked upon askance. Ruling a fiefdom is a male prerogative. I guess the men of Gondor feel as threatened by women taking away their power as men on earth.

But Ithilien is a special case. When Faramir was made Prince of Ithilien, there was hardly anything left of Ithilien. Now there were many men and women willing to re-build the former "Garden of Gondor", but they were still so few in number that it was almost possible to know every inhabitant of Ithilien by name. That accounted for a certain informality of the power structure. And starting from scratch, from ruins, working together to make Osgiliath beautiful again, created quickly a spirit of community among the Ithilians. Having the elves under Legolas' command around all the time helped the people of Ithilien be more open-minded than perhaps the rather parochial people of the mountains of Morthond.

Éowyn was busy. Arwen was busy, too. She was gradually becoming more accepted by the people of Minas Tirith. They were not as much in awe of their elvish queen as they had been a year ago. They began feeling at ease in Arwen's presence. Adoration was quickly giving way to – there's simply no other word that comes to mind – _love_. The people of Minas Tirith were falling in love with their pregnant elvish queen. But that meant that the queen was kept busy, with meetings and audiences. She had also begun training in the human arts of healing, helping Ioreth and Elaine in the House of Healing. Apart from that Arwen floated through the days with a sunny smile on her face. She was pregnant, Aragorn doted on her, and the symptoms which had plagued her during her first months of pregnancy – dizzy spells and morning sickness – had disappeared. She was more beautiful than ever, and when she took a walk in the city, women stopped her every few feet asking to touch her belly – it was commonly believed that this had an effect on the fertility of the person touching the queen. People are _so_ weird.

* * *

I was kept busy, too – with lessons and wedding preparations. But neither lessons nor wedding preparations made for a fulfilled life. I was slightly envious of Éowyn and Arwen – who had what amounted to the Middle-earth equivalent of demanding and prestigious job, whereas I was caught in limbo. Once again I was waiting. Waiting for Éomer. Waiting for September, Yavannië. Sometimes I had the feeling that I had already spent my whole life waiting for Éomer. And perhaps I had – even back on earth.

The ceremony at Edoras was set for the 30th of Yavannië, which was one of the new feast days according to the King's Reckoning: _Cormarë_, the Ringday. A good day for a royal wedding. The _brydgifta_ would be held in the Hall of Kings in the Tower of Ecthelion on the 15th, giving us ample time to travel to Edoras at a leisurely pace.

My gowns were well on the way to perfection. I had never had any doubts about that. But Aragorn had reassured me that the same was true for the new sword for Éomer. I was praying that this was true. Míriël had reassured me that the jewellery would be ready, too. I was not allowed to take a look at either the sword or the jewellery myself, because that was supposed to be bad luck. I did not even try to have a look. _Good luck and blessings, _that's what I was praying for every night. _And that the sword would be finished in time._

* * *

"I need something to do," I declared vehemently. It was a hot, hot day in the middle of July. Éowyn, for once in Minas Tirith, and Arwen were languishing in the shadow of sunshades made of white linen which had been doused with perfumed water. The hobbits, Elladan and Elrohir and Aragorn were engaged in a game of cards. Arwen smiled lazily. Éowyn opened her eyes for a moment. She looked at me with an expression of pity on her face, exchanged a glance with Arwen that said in no uncertain terms that she thought I was crazy, and then closed her eyes again.

"You could always practice your tengwar. And I think your last attempt at calculating the provisions necessary to get Meduseld over the winter was not yet quite perfect." Míriël suggested. She was sitting on a blanket with Meluir, Sorcha and Solas. They were engaged in building towers with colourful wooden blocks. I groaned. I had been told that the household would starve before the beginning of the new year according to my calculations. My next attempt had been ridiculed as a sure-fire way into debt and ruin of the treasury. If you go for a holiday in a foreign country, you always get those nifty tables to tell you just how many ₠equal how many $. There was no such table for Rohan or Gondor. Éowyn roused herself to a muted giggle. "I don't think that Mistress Gosvintha will let you starve or bankrupt the household, Lothy, so I wouldn't worry too much. Why don't you take a nap like any sensible person would at this time of day?"

I rolled my eyes at my friend. "I can't. This sitting around… This waiting is driving me crazy. I have to do something." I replied. "Anything!"

I rose to my feet and began pacing the length of the terrace. Finally the Lady Elaine took pity on me. "Why don't you go for a ride? At this time of the day everyone's asleep anyway. If she stays within the Rammas Echor she should be quite safe." The healer was sitting at a table with a book about the herbs of Ithilien. "That's not fair on her poor guards," Éowyn protested. "They will perish with the heat in their livery." Elaine shrugged. The healer was not known for her easy ways with servants. She demanded as much dedication from those who served her as she demanded of herself. I bit down on my lip and considered her suggestion. The thought of getting away from the palace, the thought of getting some exercise was a real temptation. But after a moment I heaved a sigh and sat back down. Forcing Mimi out in this sweltering heat with no good cause… only because I was feeling restless… no way.

"Ha!" Pippin exclaimed, throwing down his hand of cards in triumph. "Game over!" Elladan raised his head and looked at the hobbit with admiration. "This is amazing. That hobbit plays the meanest game of cards I have ever seen since Halbarad died." Aragorn nodded. "That's true. I feel I am on my way of losing my kingdom to him." He winked at the hobbit. Pippin grinned smugly. The hobbit had grown into a dashing young man; still three years shy of his coming of age, he cut through the society of Minas Tirith like a hot knife through butter. It was amazing to see how many young women were willing to overlook his lack in height and his woolly feet. Though taking in his lean, muscular form, his curly hair and sparkling eyes I reconsidered. Perhaps it was not so amazing after all. Merry, who was gathering up the cards and shuffling them for a new game with the ease of long practice, was not a failure either where girls were concerned. His dark, handsome looks won the hearts of the lasses in Minas Tirith as easily as in Hobbiton. But with his thirty-eight years Merry was a little more circumspect in the ways he handled his conquests.

I sighed, fidgeting in my chair. I was so damn restless these days. And the days were so long, so long and so slow, drenched in sunshine and the scent of lemon flowers. I heaved another sigh.

_Patience, Lothy. Patience!_

I sighed again.

* * *

I don't know how it happened. But suddenly the day was there. **The** day.

I was sitting in my bed after giving up on sleeping. It was the night from the 14th of Yavannië to the 15th. I was simply too excited. My stomach seemed to consist only of wildly fluttering butterflies. I had tossed and turned and sighed for a few hours, trying to fall asleep. Then I stopped even trying to get some sleep. I sat huddled in my covers and stared into the darkness, listening to my frantic heartbeat and the nightly sounds of the Citadel around me.

I had to rise early in the next morning. The _brydgifta _would be held in the morning. My marriage would be held according to Rohirric traditions, because my betrothed was Rohirrim. First my _mund _would be given to Éomer, and then he could take me to Edoras, where we would exchange the holy vows of _brydealu_. We would set out for Edoras before noon.

Everything was ready to go. Even a splendid carriage for the queen. Arwen had been very angry at being treated like royalty. She had been not amused at all when Éowyn had pointed out that she was, in fact, royalty – twice royal, even, from her father's side, as well as by her marriage. Éowyn was awfully chipper since her wedding. I hugged my knees against my breast. It was only a matter of time until Éowyn would be pregnant, too. If she wasn't already… I hid a smile in the blankets. Éomer and I would have to put in some real work to catch up with the others. Even as I thought it, my stomach erupted in another flurry of butterflies. Éomer. I. A bed. I closed my eyes and put my icy palms against my hot cheeks. Only two more weeks until…

I gulped – and predictably my heart almost jumped into my mouth. Only two more weeks until. _Until…_

I blinked my eyes rapidly. Somewhere between my last thought of how long it would be until I felt Éomer's body pressed against mine, I must have dozed off. Now the darkness of the night was giving way to the blue shadows of early morning. The Citadel was fairly quiet. A blackbird was greeting the dawn from somewhere close to my window. And from farther away the sound of a horse neighing drifted up to me. I felt my stomach do a somersault. No. Not my stomach. It felt as if my complete innards were tossing and twisting.

I leapt from the bed. I had to get ready. I had to get ready!

At that moment, the door opened and Míri rushed in. She swept me into a tight embrace. "Good morning, Lothíriel." Then she stepped back and looked at me for a long moment, as if she was unsure what to say. Then she added, hesitantly. "Good morning, _iëll-nîn_, my daughter."

I did not even stop to think. I simply hugged her again. My voice quivered, as I replied. "Morning, _naneth-nîn_. Mama." And I thought about my other Mama, so very far away and broke into tears. Not terrible, sobbing tears, but emotional tears from being so very excited and nervous. Míriël held me close until I had calmed down. Then she smiled at me, that happy smile that told me how much she enjoyed it that she had found a daughter in me. A daughter who had to be prepared for the first stage in her journey to married life.

A few moments later there was a soft knock on the door. Ini entered, curtsied deeply to us and then turned imperiously to the maid-servants of the Citadel who were following her. They carried a huge tub and many steaming ewers. I would be bathed in as much hot water as I could want today.

Half an hour later I was immersed in hot water with rose blossoms floating around me. It was not a bubble bath, but it was laced with rose oil and smelling like paradise. Slowly the warmth of the water soothed my nerves and dispersed the cold of anxiety from my hands and my feet. I sighed deeply.

Míriël smiled at me and offered me a glass of white sparkly wine from a tray. I drank deeply and found a huge smile spreading across my face. This was the day. My day. Éomer's day. Finally.

When I had finished my bath, I was presented with rose scented body oil and powder. Míriël took over brushing my hair. By the time she had combed out the tangles, the hair was almost dry. It had grown a little bit lighter in the hot summer sun of Gondor, so it was brown with subtle golden highlights now. I had even acquired just a hint of a tan. When my hair was brushed, Elaine presented me with her latest experiment on toothpaste. It was no longer the white powder of chalk and ground oyster shells that it had been. She had added cinnamon and coriander and this and that. It was still more or less a white sandy powder, but it had lost the terrible taste of dead fish and dust. My old blue plastic toothbrush was way beyond anything I would have used back on earth, but somehow it was poignant and important that I used this bit of blue and white plastic and bristles on this day. It had come such a long way with me. From Erlangen to Bree. From Bree to Rivendell. All the way through Moria. It had remained behind at Amon Hen. But when I had woken at Edoras, it had been there, waiting for me, along with the other small things of my past that had been in my pack and which Aragorn had taken with him when they had chased the orcs from Amon Hen to the borders of Fangorn Forest – hoping against hope that he would be able to return my pack to me. My pack and my tooth brush.

I had kept it. In Tarnost, in Dol Amroth. During the golden days at Cormallen. At Edoras…

My dress for today was blue. Dark blue leggings. A pale blue shirt. And a dress-like, soft, almost translucent tunic in periwinkle-blue that seemed to float around me like a cloud. Without my bit of a tan I would have been too pale for the dress, but as it was, I **felt at** least that I looked lovely.

I daubed a little perfume oil – roses again – behind my ears, at my throat and on my wrists. Then I had to sit very still while Sorcha applied my make-up. Nothing fancy, since we would ride as soon as the _brydgifta_ was over and I did not want to end up with a smeared face. But she had a little kohl for my eyelids and lashes, and a little silvery powder. And a rosy paste that went on my lips and – only a tiny little bit of it – on my cheekbones.

Then she suddenly stepped away from me. I looked up and found Sorcha and Míriël smiling at me, their eyes glittering with emotion. Little Solas, who had been sitting on the floor in front of the dressing table, watching intently, stared at me with round blue eyes and an open mouth. "You is pretty," she said. "Almost like se queen." Solas had learned to talk very well during the last months. She had turned three years in June. She was beyond cute. And smart. And she said exactly what she thought.

"You are very sweet, little one," I said and my face almost hurt with the happy smile that reached from ear to ear. "Thank you!" Solas nodded solemnly. Then she thought hard. "You welcome." She said finally. Sorcha laughed out loud and made Ini take her daughter away. Sorcha would accompany me to the ceremony. Solas we would meet only later, when we would leave Minas Tirith. Sorcha and Solas would share the carriage with the queen.

I inhaled deeply. It was strange, but the nervousness and the anxiety of the night had passed. Now that I was dressed, and as pretty as I could be, I felt at ease. A little breathless and giddy, light-headed. But calm. Floating – like my dress.

* * *

A soft knock sounded.

The door opened to admit Arwen and Éowyn.

I turned to them, this almost painful smile of happiness stretching my facial muscles. "Is it time?" I asked. My voice was the way I felt, light, and a little breathless.

My friends looked at me, the Queen of Gondor, and the White Lady of Ithilien, and both of them smiled, Arwen's smile soft, Éowyn's a little angular, but just as brilliant. "Yes," Arwen said. "It is time. We have come to escort you to the Hall of Kings."

They embraced me, careful of my dress and my hair. Then they walked ahead of me, out of the apartments of the Prince and the Lady of Dol Amroth, down the broad marble staircase of the House of the Kings and out into the clear golden sunlight of an early morning in Yavannië.

Míriël followed me, and behind her were Sorcha and Elaine.

I did not notice much of my surroundings as I walked from the House of Kings to the Tower of Ecthelion. I knew that the sun was shining in that perfect golden way I love so much about September, and that the sky was a deep, perfect, morning glory blue. I heard people calling my name, and I seem to remember that there were flowers being thrown to the ground in front of me.

Then we were suddenly on the stairs in front of the White Tower and I remembered how Éomer and I had met here, months ago, to get away from the celebrations, to talk…

But before I could think about that night for another second, the doors of the Hall of Kings were thrust open by guards dressed in the sombre black livery of the Citadel.

Clarions sounded.

For a moment my stomach did a sickening somersault. But I had no choice. I could only follow Arwen and Éowyn into the Hall of Kings and up to the two thrones. Aragorn, arrayed as the King of Gondor, with silver crown and blue mantle sat on the white throne. Faramir, dressed in the white and black of the Steward of Gondor was on the black throne, his posture stiff as it always was when he had to sit there, but his expression full of warmth, his eyes more blue than grey.

But I only glanced at them for a moment.

Then I stopped dead in my tracks. My breath caught hard in my throat. My heart echoed the drums which were rolling to the rhythm of the trumpets and clarions announcing my entrance. On a level with the black throne of the Stewards, Prince Imrahil and Éomer King were standing.

Both were dressed in their uniforms as high commanders of their countries. Imrahil wore the blue and silver of Dol Amroth, his silvery fair hair falling down across his shoulders almost like a second mantle. His eyes shone like silver and he looked at me with a proud smile on his face. _Ada_, I thought. _Ada_

But before I could get any more emotional at seeing my second adoptive father smiling at me as if I was the dearest treasure of his heart, I was caught in Éomer's dark gaze.

Éomer King stood in front of the throne of Gondor. He was clad in the deep red armour he had worn on the Fields of the Pelennor and in front of the Morannon more than a year before. He wore trousers of rich brown leather and a shirt of an almost golden hue. At his neck a kingly red cloak had been fastened with a brooch in the form of an eagle. His golden and dun curls tumbled to his shoulders, for once tamed by comb and hair tonic. His beard, a touch darker than his hair, was well trimmed, accentuating the shape of his face more than hiding it. His dark eyes blazed at me, sparkling with those amazing flecks of amber.

I stared at Éomer and found it almost impossible to breathe, much less move.

The sound of choked laughter – Éowyn – finally roused me from my reverie. Between them, Arwen and Éowyn, made sure that I got up the stairs without mishap. I was glad of their assistance. I felt as if I was walking on clouds. Without them at my left and my right, I would have stumbled over my own feet and gone sprawling on my face in front of my betrothed and the king.

But then I was there, and Arwen and Éowyn drifted back down the stairs after squeezing my arms briefly.

* * *

The drums and the trumpets fell silent. My heart did not. Elladan and Elrohir who were standing with their sister at the sides of the stairs down below the thrones probably could discern every single frantic, excited beat of my heart.

Éomer was about three feet away from me. But I felt the warmth of his body radiate across my body, from my head, over my cleavage right down to my toes. I tasted his fragrance on the air, spicy, male, today without the pungent aftertaste of horse and hay, and I gasped.

He smiled at me and tears rose to my eyes.

Aragorn rose from his throne. He looked at us in turn, at Imrahil whom he knew so long and so well, at Éomer who was like a brother for him – and at me. His grey eyes sparkled, and for a moment it seemed to me that I saw the reflection of a memory in their clear depths, almost like the scene of a movie.

_A gate of solid wood, and a rugged gate keeper standing in front of it, a pike in his hand, looking at a young woman… A young woman with tangled brown hair and confused expression on her face… a young woman in blue jeans and a man's shirt, with a backpack in camouflage pattern on her back…_

_Her shaking voice as she said: "He knows me…"_

Then the moment was over.

Aragorn smiled at me. A warm, knowing smile. He did know me today.

"Éomer King of Rohan has come to claim _mund _and guardianship over the Lady Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, his betrothed of a year and a day. Therefore I ask him now and here: do you have the _handgeld_ you have oathed to have?"

The _handgeld_ was the bride price and would be paid in a symbolical coinage of a bag of gold.

Éomer stepped forward and held out a brown leather bag tied with red yarn. It seemed heavy and well filled. But until this day I have no idea what was really in it. Precious coins or stones.

"I have, my lord," Éomer said and the sound of his dark voice sent a shiver down my spine.

Then he turned towards Imrahil. His expression was solemn as he offered the leather purse to the Prince of Dol Amroth. "I give you this _handgeld_ as I oathed to do, in recompense for the loss of a daughter. I know well that there are no golden coins and nor jewels in all of this Middle-earth to ever balance the loss of a daughter so kind and full of virtue as the Lady Lothíriel of Dol Amroth is. But this is all that I have. And gladly I give it to you, my lord, if you allow me to lead your daughter home and make her my wife."

Imrahil accepted the leather purse. Both men bowed to each other. Then it was Aragorn's turn as the _weofodthegn_, the patron of this _brydgifta_, to ask the father of the bride for the _brydgifu_, the dowry.

He looked at Imrahil, and said: "Do you have the _brydgifu_ as you have given oath to have?"

Now it was Imrahil who proffered a leather purse, this one tied with blue yarn. And this time I knew that it was indeed filled with riches. It was, in _mithril _coins and jewels, my inheritance of the wealth of Dol Amroth according to the laws of Gondor.

Imrahil moved towards me, his silvery eyes piercingly bright. He looked at me and smiled; a smile that was surprising in its warmth and easiness, in such an imposing man as my _Ada_. He held out the heavy leather purse to me. His voice was clear and held a hint of gentle teasing at my state of confusion. "I give you this _brydgifu,_ my beloved daughter, _iëll-melda-nîn._ It is yours to have and to hold all of your days."

The leather was soft and heavy in my hands. I curtsied and had to blink rapidly. My eyes burned with tears of love and happiness which would ruin my make-up. I inhaled deeply. Now it was my turn.

I turned around to Éomer and extended the leather purse to him. "I give you this _brydgifu_, my lord, to keep safe for me and mine all of your days." Éomer bowed to me and took the bag from my hands. A short moment his fingers touched my hands in a soft, warm caress. Then he stepped back again and both of us looked at the king standing above us, a tender expression on his face.

After a moment's silence Aragorn spoke again. "The _brydgifu_ and the _handgeld _have been gifted and given. The holy oaths have been held. Now it is time for the father of the bride to place his _mund_ and guardianship in the hands of the _brydguma_. Now it is time for the _brydguma_ to lead his betrothed home to exchange the holy oaths of marriage."

Imrahil stepped forward and held out his right hand to me. I raised my left hand. I saw that my hand was trembling and my heartbeat was like the wings of a small bird in my throat. But my _Ada__'s_ grip was firm and comforting. He turned me around towards Éomer, and when I looked at Éomer, everything around me disappeared as if swallowed up by soft mists. I felt my hand placed into Éomer's. I felt Éomer grip my fingers tightly.

Together we turned around to face the Hall of Kings.

As the Hall of Kings erupted in cheers, tears of happiness were streaming down my cheeks and ruining the carefully applied make-up. But I did not care. My dream had come true. I had found a home. I had found love. And now I was on my way to my future with the man whom I loved more than life itself.

* * *

**A/N:** I am very happy that you liked chapter 83 and I hope even more that you liked this one. But, my friends, the customs I mentioned are not "hilarious". They are (more or less) historical facts. That's the way getting married worked in the Middle Ages in Europe. For anyone interested in the historical background, here are some references (in no particular order):

Thomas, Kirsti S.: Medieval and Renaissance Marriage: Theory and Customs  
Hallakarva, Gunnora: Courtship, Love and Marriage in Viking Scandinavia  
(both online at: www .drizzle .com /celyn /mrwp /mrwp .html – _take out the spaces_)  
Erkens, Franz-Reiner: Fecit nuptias regio, ut decuit, apparatu – Hochzeitsfeste als Akte monarchischer Repräsentation in salischer Zeit  
Fischer, Andreas: Engagement, Wedding and Marriage in Old English  
Borst, Arno: Lebensformen im Mittelalter  
Fößel, Amalie: Die Königin im mittelalterlichen Reich  
Schubert, Ernst: Alltag im Mittelalter  
Wodening, Swain: An Anglo-Saxon Heathen Wedding  
…and of course various sites of the SCA.


	85. Brydhlōp

**Just to remind you… **if you want to use anything that I have written, you should ask for **permission – **_before_ you start writing. If I find stuff that has obviously been copied from my stories or other writings without permission and no reference, I will send one friendly mail to the person concerned. If there is no _polite_ reply to that mail, I turn the matter over to admin.

I am quite willing to share some of my settings, ideas and characters, provided that you ask for permission first and you give a proper reference to the source. (As a matter of fact I am already sharing one of my OMCs, Helmichis, with the wonderful Aeneid at HASA who is writing the story of Helmichis' parents.)

But: I will not share the structure or phrasing of my profile. I hope you understand that I feel that my profile is a personal and private matter! And although you can do whatever you like to the canon-character of Lothíriel, I won't share my Tenth Walker/law student-Lothy. I will also never share the main original characters of my stories, so you don't have to ask about Nihil, Ulyssäi, Elanor, Jarro, Mina or Elentar.

* * *

**85. Brydhlōp**

I held Éomer's hand and cried as we turned around and faced the cheering crowd. The Hall of Kings was completely filled with people. Cheering, shouting, smiling people. Men and women, who cheered and shouted and smiled for Éomer and me. Children who were jumping up and down in their excitement, waving their small hands.

A feeling of unbelievable elation swept though me. The first part of our wedding was over. I was now officially Éomer's responsibility. As if ony cue his hand tightened around mine as he lifted our joined hands towards the cheering crowd.

All our friends were there.

Merry – resplendent in his livery as squire of Rohan – and Pippin – once more adorned in the black and silver livery of the guards of the Citadel – were right at the front, clapping their hands enthusiastically, their smiles as huge as I felt my own smile to be.

Arwen – seated on the delicate white throne that had been erected for the queen in front of the dais, to the lefthand side – was crying; her brothers – standing tall and beautiful on either side of her throne – were smiling at us, broad, graceful elvish smiles.

Éowyn, who stood to the side of the steward's black throne, was blinking furiously, fighting a loosing battle against some happy tears, but she smiled at the same time.

Sorcha had hidden her face in a huge silken kerchief. Helmichis grinned all over his face, standing with the other guards, but unmistakable because of his burly build and height. Mistress Ioreth of the Houses of Healing, still a little paler and thinner than she had been, was solemn in grey and black, but her smile warmed her eyes to a sparkling blue-grey.

Wherever I looked there were smiling faces, winking friendly eyes, waving hands.

Trumpets and clarions sounded a ringing fanfare, then harps and drums added their voices.

I felt my heart beating in the same happy rhythm as the music that was filling up the hall. Éomer slowly lowered our joined hands. Then he turned his head and looked into my eyes. With that deep, dark look of his. That look that melts me into a puddle in a moment. But his mouth held an unaccustomed happy smile, curling at the corners as if he had lost control of the smile. "Are you ready, my love?"

My heart thumped heavily. I had to swallow before I could answer without shedding more silly tears of happiness. "Yes, my love."

Éomer tugged my hand firmly into the crook of his arm and kept it covered with his hand. He gave me a wink and a smile, then he proceeded to lead me down the stairs. As we passed down the aisle to the great black doors of the Hall of Kings, showers of rose petals were thrown at our feet and poured over our heads. The air was heavy with their sweet perfume.

The doors of the hall were thrust open to a magnificent, resounding roll of the drums.

We stepped out of the Hall of Kings into the golden sunshine of a perfect morning in Yavannië. Much as I had seen it at Arwen's wedding our way had been secured with ropes and guards positioned at regular intervals; this was more or less expected, I knew that there were security measures all over the city today. That had been discussed at length. Along with all kinds of worst-case-scenarios. So I knew that I was as secure as I could be. What I had not known and not expected was that those measures were necessary to contain about as large a crowd of onlookers gathered around the Citadel as there had been at Arwen's wedding. When we walked out into the sunlight, it seemed to me for a deafening moment that even the great drums and piercing clarions of the royal musicians were drowned out by the cheers and applause that swept around the Citadel at our exit.

"Wow," I said stupidly and blinked. Then my right hand involuntarily went up to my eyes. I pressed my lips together. I had to look like a three days old corpse with the kohl smeared all over my face from the crying. _What the hell. _I knew why I had cried. There's no shame in happy tears. I felt more than heard Éomer chuckle next to me at my comment on the sight of the jubilant people of Minas Tirith who had gathered here today to have a peek at the wedding of Éomer King of Rohan and the Lady Lothíriel of Dol Amroth.

* * *

On the Place of the Fountain pavilions of an almost sheer white cloth had been erected. Here family, friends and important guests would gather to congratulate us and to bring out a toast in our honour before we would set out for Edoras.

Éomer – all the time maintaining his firm grip of my hand – led me towards the fountain in graceful, measured steps. My dress whispered and sighed around me, here and there adorned by rose petals. As we walked by, more blossoms were thrown at our feet, over our heads all the time. I'll never know how they managed to find so many flowers, or how they managed to get them so high into the air that the petals actually rained down on us – but they did, and it was just like in the movies, only, this was me, this was me, and this was real: with the sunshine warm upon my face, and the perfume of roses so sweet in the air. It was my name that was chanted as we passed, and more: they did not only call "Lothíriel". They called "Lothy, Lothy, Lothy"! The men looked at us with expressions of friendly good humour on their faces, raising their hands to their foreheads in the greeting that was the due of a captain of Gondor. The women's applause was caught between smiles and tears with the magic of it all. They waved bright silken kerchiefs at us and threw handfuls of herbs and blossoms into the air to sweeten our way to my new home. The children, especially the little girls, seemed to be simply thrilled with the beauty of it all and their high sweet voices rose like flutes above the music that followed us from the Hall of Kings to the Place of the Fountain.

Then we arrived at the main white and blue pavilion right in front of the fountain. A servant offered us two silver goblets with sparkling wine on a silver tray.

Éomer smiled at the servant. "Just a moment, please. I have to kiss my bride first."

My heart echoed his words with little skip. _I was no longer his betrothed. I was his bride. And in only a little over two weeks I would be his wife._

Then I couldn't think anymore at all, because my lips were covered with the firm, hot, silky touch that belonged to Éomer's lips. I opened my mouth to him, and for the first time our tongues touched, entwining each other in hungry delight. I felt as if I was drowning in Éomer's dark eyes. The happy amber flecks started dancing all around me.

Suddenly he let go off me with his lips. But luckily he kept a firm hold of me with his hands, or I would probably have crumbled to the ground in a heap. I gasped breathlessly. I realized that I had closed my eyes. When I opened my eyes again, I found us surrounded by friends and family. As a matter of fact I was looking right into the eyes of Gimli who was blushing furiously. At once I felt an answering heat suffusing my own cheeks. I had not noticed anything around me at all, from the moment Éomer had touched his lips to mine.

The servant was still there. He had waited patiently for the King of Rohan finising his kiss and was now politely offering the silver tray and the goblets to us again. Éomer grinned at me, as he took one of them and held it out to me. I glared at him. Well, I _thought _that I would glare at him. I think what I actually did looked more like a besotted smile. I accepted the goblet and felt quite accomplished when I found that I could hold it without trembling.

Then Éomer turned towards me with the other goblet in his hand. "Here's to my Lothíriel!" he called out, and his clear voice surely reached the last and most remote corner of the Citadel.

I smiled back at him and replied – my voice a trifle shaky, but bright with happiness. "And here's to my Éomer!"

"To Lothíriel and Éomer," Aragorn echoed our toast, walking towards us with a goblet of his own in his raised hand. Arwen was at his side, looking and smiling like the angel she is.

"My friends," she said and lifted her goblet to us. "Happiness on all your ways!"

The wine was cool and tart and tickled slightly at the back of my mouth. When I had taken but a small swallow I was forced to put the goblet down again, because family and friends who had gathered around to congratulate us would wait no longer for their turn to hug and kiss me.

Everyone was there: Míri and _Ada_, Elphir, in his sombre uniform as captain of the guard, Númendil, in the green uniform of a page of Rohan, Mel, in the colours of Dol Amroth just like his Dad. Aragorn and Arwen, first and foremost, but of course Faramir and Éowyn were also there. Elladan and Elrohir, elegantly elvish both of them. Legolas and Gimli, smiling broadly and assuring me that everything was ready for the _brydealu_. Sorcha and little Solas with flowers in her hair and insisting on a kiss. Elaine, Ioreth, Erkenbrand, Helmichis, Rhawion. Húrin of the Keyes and his family, the lord and the lady of Tarnost. And various lords and ladies of Gondor and Rohan who floated by me as if in a dream, all of them bowing, curtsying, embracing and kissing.

When I finally found myself next to Éomer again, my goblet was empty and I felt all giddy and dizzy. Éomer looked a little dazed, too. The musicians had struck up another lively tune and everyone around us was talking animatedly. Servants hurried around, busily refilling the glasses. It was a little like being caught in the eye of a storm, a veritable whirlwind of celebration. We stood so close together that I was almost sure I could feel the rhythmic drumming of Éomer's heart echo inside of my body. I tilted my head back a little to look into those warm dark eyes of his that I loved so much.

Suddenly the music and the voices around us seemed to subside and fade away. It was as if we were all alone in the golden sunshine, the blue blue sky above, a bright future stretched out before us. We looked at each other in silence for a long moment. I smiled. All of me smiled. I smiled from the crown of my head to my tips of my small toes. Éomer's expression was almost solemn. His eyes almost blazed with a dark fire, the glowing embers of his heart alight in his eyes. Then his expression changed. Quite suddenly. It was like the sun breaking through the clouds after a summer rain. A singularly sweet and tender smile curved his lips when he spoke finally.

"Let us go home, my love."

I could not find any words to reply. I only nodded my head, blinking away new tears of happiness. Éomer put his arm around me and led me away from the fountain, through an arch of beautifully carved white marble and into the tunnel that connects the Citadel with the sixth circle of Minas Tirith.

* * *

The white walls of the tunnel were bright with the golden flames of many torches. Our steps echoed around us in a shared, smooth rhythm. Behind us the clarions sounded a fanfare to signal our departure. Éomer's hand was tight and warm around mine.

We were on our way. On our way home.

When we emerged from the tunnel, the brightness of the sunshine was again almost blinding. For a moment I blinked in confusion.

Frohwein, Éomer's squire, bowed to us deeply, but not before I had been able to glimpse a happy, congratulatory smile on his face. In his hands Frohwein held Hiswa's reins. The grey stallion snorted impatiently and moved forward to greet his rider and friend. Éomer turned to me. "It's Rohirric custom for the bride to ride home sharing a horse with her husband. We don't have to obey that custom for the entire ride, but I thought you might enjoy riding with me today."

"I'd love to," I said. The memories of the last time we had shared Hiswa on our way back from Tarnost were among the happiest memories of my life. "If Hiswa is o.k. with it?"

I extended my palm to the horse. Hiswa butted his nose against my hand. I breathed gently against his muzzle. Hiswa flicked his ears gently and gave a small grunt. Éomer chuckled. "Hiswa says, let's get going."

With an easy grip Éomer helped me into the saddle, and then mounted the stallion to sit behind me. Holding the reins in his left hand, he used his right arm to gather me in a firm embrace against his broad chest. I felt his cheek touch my temple in a brief caress. Then he whispered to me, "Comfortable? Ready?" I felt my smile grow even broader than it had been. "Aye, my lord," I answered.

"Then let's go!" Éomer cried, his voice ringing.

Hiswa pranced for two or three steps, the excitement of his riders communicating to the horse. Then he gave a challenging neigh and galloped down the street towards the tunnel to the fifth circle of the city. Behind us Frohwein and Éomer's personal guard, as well as my bodyguards mounted their horses. The banners of Rohan and Dol Amroth at the front, carried by Frohwein and Gawin, our escort sped up behind us, the hooves of the horses like thunder on the pavement.

* * *

As we descended from the Citadel, passing down the six circles of the city of Minas Tirith cheers and applause accompanied us, and a continuous rain of flower petals seemed to fill the air. Finally we reached the Great Gates.

The guards crossed their spears in front of us and their captain asked, "Who are you and whither do you desire to go from here?" His voice was strong and stern, but he smiled when he said that and his eyes sparkled.

"Éomer King of Rohan am I, and my bride Lothíriel formerly of Dol Amroth is with me. We are riding for the Golden Hall of Meduseld in Edoras in the Riddermark of Rohan, our home." Éomer answered his voice clear and proud. My heart thumped heavily in my breast. For a second Éomer lowered his gaze and I gasped at the light of love that shone in his eyes.

The captain of the guard bowed very low. "If that is your desire, your highness, then pass the Great Gates of Minas Tirith with the blessings of all our people. Godspeed, and may Eru and the Valar lead you home on the safest paths!"

The guards raised their spears and stepped to the side of the Great Gates. The silver spearheads glinted in the sun. Groaning the gates began to move. Slowly the great iron doors moved to the side. Outside the fields of the Pelennor shimmered red and green and gold, flowering poppies and ripening grasses.

Éomer did not bother to wait for the escort to catch up. He spurred Hiswa on, and in an exhilarating, dizzying burst of speed we were racing along the road across the fields of the Pelennor, towards the northern gate of the Rammas Echor. I had no opportunity to look back, I could only gasp and laugh at the joy of our race and the warm strength of my Éomer, my bridegroom, behind me.

* * *

After an hour we reached the northern gate of the Rammas Echor. By that time our escort had caught up with us, even though the rest of the company – the carriage with Arwen – the king, Faramir, Éowyn, _Ada_, Míri and the others were still far behind us, only now getting ready to leave Minas Tirith. They would reach our camp sometime in the evening – giving us some time to spend (almost) alone together that way.

The fields of Anórien gleamed in rich colours in the sunlight before us, golden wheat, green stems of corn and yellow sunflowers. Fifteen miles to the east the Anduin glittered in the sunshine. Behind us to the left, its cap of snow brilliant against the blue sky, its slopes a vibrant violet with the blooming heather the mount Mindolluin rose high above the white walls, turrets and cupolas of Minas Tirith.

It was a perfect day for travelling, for riding through the sun-kissed lands of Anórien.

It was a perfect day for everything.

It simply **was** a perfect day.

When we had passed the Rammas Echor, Éomer slowed Hiswa down to a walk. Our guards remained as far behind and in front of us as security allowed. We were almost alone. I relaxed against Éomer. He lowered his face against my head, so that he could smell my hair. I felt him inhale deeply and sigh. A sigh that was deep with happiness and contentment. The smile that seemed to have taken on permanent residence on my face today grew once more. I sighed back in answer to the unspoken question. "Ich liebe dich," I said softly, my heart skipping inside of me, as I thought: my bridegroom! My Éomer!

I felt his lips twitch against my hair. "Ich liebe dich," he replied, doing an extremely life-like imitation of a hissing cat at the "ch"-sounds. Hiswa flicked his ears and shook his head a little at the strange noises issuing from the mouth of his rider, but kept up his smooth walk. I could not hold my happiness inside of me any longer. I started laughing. A loud, free, silly, happy, abandoned laughing that shook my body against Éomer's and took my breath away.

I felt Éomer's lips move against my head, as his smile broadened at my sudden outburst of hilarity. He tightened his hold on me, keeping me safe in his arms. He listened to my laughter for a few moments. Then he let go of the reins. Directing Hiswa's progress only with the pressure of his legs to the beast's sides, Éomer carefully moved my hair out of the way and bent his head towards me. He silenced me quickly and effectively with a slow, deep kiss.

When he finally let go, my laughter and my smile had turned into a helpless gasp. It felt as if a current of electricity moved through our bodies in an endless circuit of desire. Éomer exhaled in a heavy sigh. "I wish we had not promised to camp at the Grey Wood tonight," he remarked. "I wish we had not promised to take our time on this journey. I find that I am more than eager to return to Edoras. To exchange the holy vows with my bride. To finally claim my bride as my woman." His voice lowered to a deep growl that sent shivers down my spine. I felt my body arch against his. He tightened his hold on me, and I felt just how eager he was to get to Edoras. My answer was a shivery sigh. I was looking forward to reaching Edoras, too.

But I have to admit that I enjoyed the slow ride on the great, grey Meara that day. The sun was golden and the sky was blue, the air was balmy. Éomer held me in his arms, and now and again we kissed, softly, gently, deeply.

And that was the way the whole _brydhlōp_ went by: golden sunshine, a blue blue sky, air like glass filled with the fragrance of the fading summer – and everything was drenched with soft kisses, gentle touches and deep, deep looks.

* * *

**A/N: **I am happy that so many of you are still out there and enjoying my story. Thank you for your kind and encouraging comments. **The story of Lothíriel is for you, and always was.**

I know that some of you are impatient about the updates and especially about the wedding chapters. I am very sorry that I have slowed down somewhat, but the deadline of my degree paper is approaching and Christmas is a time for family and friends, for real life… so I really can't do more than one or two chapters a week.

Nevertheless, here is the second part of Lothíriel's wedding, hopefully in time for Christmas:

**I wish all of my readers and reviewers a very Merry, Happy Christmas: you have made my life so much richer with your questions, your comments, your impatience, your criticism and your praise. Thank you and God bless you.**


	86. Brydealu

**Dedication: **This one's for Eärengil (who made up the beautiful Sindarin inscription on the sword) and for Ellenflower. _Gwend!_

* * *

**86. Brydealu**

No matter how much you enjoy the journey, no matter how fine the weather is and how wonderful the company, after two weeks on horseback, you are rumpled, grumpy, achy and smelling rather strongly of horse.

That was how we arrived at "The Bridge Inn", the guesthouse at the bridge across Snowbourne River, some two thousand feet from the city's walls. We would spend the night there, to give me and the other ladies a chance to get pretty for the _brydealu_, the wedding ceremony and the wedding feast which would be held when I entered the city.

The sun was already low when we followed the road on the banks of the Snowbourne south towards Edoras. The white peaks of the mountains of the Westfold gleamed in the last sunshine, and the roof of the Golden Hall of Meduseld glittered golden above the grey and brown thatched roofs of the city. My heart went wide at the sight of the dike and the city's walls sheltered by the slopes of the Irensaga and the Starkhorn. For a moment I wished we could have ridden on, right up to the Hall of Meduseld. I reined in Mithril and looked at Edoras lying there before me in the light of the evening sun. For a moment I thought of the peace and quite of the small chamber with the stained glass windows which had been mine when I had stayed in Edoras before. My heart gave a thump. I would never return to that small chamber. I swallowed hard, finding a flurry of butterflies had taken up residence in my stomach once again. When I returned to Edoras, it would be on Hiswa, in Éomer's embrace, as his _bryd_, his bride.

"Are you nervous, Lothy?" Éowyn had guided her Brego next to Mithril. The horses rubbed their heads against each other comfortably. But they were impatiently swishing their tails. They knew they were almost home, and it was beyond our poor horses' understanding why we did not simply gallop into Edoras and to their stables. I sighed and tightened my hold on Mimi's reins. Then I chanced a glance at Éowyn.

Faramir's love and understanding had changed my friend. She had relaxed in a way I would not have thought possible when I first met her. She was still fierce and formidable, and always would be, but the desperate tension that had been one of her most striking traits was gone. She had found her place in life.

As she looked at me now, she wore an expression that was caught somewhere between a smile and a grin. "Are you afraid what my brother will do to you, come tomorrow night?" Her eyes sparkled. The smile was now definitely a grin. "Or why are you hesitating?"

I frowned at her. I'm no good at witty repartee when I'm thinking deep thoughts about home coming and love. After a moment's consideration I replied, "Well, I do hope that your brother's worth it: waiting one year and a day. Or two." I pressed my lips together to suppress a sigh. _Or three…_ "Actually I was thinking that Edoras looks beautiful in the evening sun. And that it actually feels like I'm coming home. That's a good sign, isn't it?"

Éowyn's grin turned into a soft, sweet smile once more. "It is a good sign, _leof min_, my friend. Don't worry, Lothy. You will be beautiful and it will be a lot of fun. Rohirric weddings are wonderful feasts."

I nodded and inhaled deeply. My heart sped up nevertheless. _Tomorrow I would finally be married to the man I loved._

I clucked my tongue and nudged Mithril to turn around and walk towards the others who were about to enter the yard of the guesthouse.

* * *

I got to share the room with Elaine and Sorcha. But it was Sorcha and Ini who prepared the bath for me with the help of two maid-servants of the inn. There was no way to get two real baths in as many days, even if you are the bride of the king. I did not want to go to sleep in a real bed after two weeks on horseback, covered in the dust and the grime of the journey. So I got my bridal bath late in the evening of the 29th of Yavannië.

But I think perhaps it was even better that way. I don't think I have ever appreciated a hot bath the way I enjoyed this one. It was a big bathtub, made of tin or something like that. Anyway, I really fit in that tub completely. It was actually the first bathtub in Middle-earth that I fit in completely. When the maid-servants departed after having emptied the last bucket with steaming hot water into the tub, I was completely submerged in hot water. Sorcha added a fragrant mixture of oil and blossoms to the water and stirred gently. Elaine had gone down to see about dinner. I was grateful for that. I had learned to be at ease around Sorcha and Ini when I am naked, but I feel awkward in the presence of Elaine. And not only when I am naked.

"I think we don't need you at the moment, Ini," Sorcha said in a friendly manner. Ini smiled her shy smile and bobbed a small curtsy. Then she left the room. Sorcha turned back to me with a smile on her lips. "Should I leave, too? You know that I should stay with you according to the Rohirric customs, but –"I shook my head. "No, please, stay. I like having you here!" And I did.

Sorcha had become a close friend. I liked her easy and straightforward manner. The way I could ask her anything at all about the customs and cultures of Arda. She would always answer honestly, to the best of her knowledge. She knew more about ordinary people than any of my other friends and was an astute observer. Her position as my lady-in-waiting was not an easy one. There was resentment because she was a commoner. But Míri, Éomer and I had been in agreement. I needed Sorcha as a lady-in-waiting. I did not need a maid. I needed someone who understood the Rohirric and the Gondorian culture. Someone who could help me in every day life, with nobles and commoners alike. And to be of that kind of help, Sorcha needed to have an official position of influence. I knew that there were days when she came close to regretting her decision. Envy and jealousy are not pretty. But Sorcha wanted the chance the position of her as a lady-in-waiting of the Queen of Rohan would offer her little daughter, Solas. So she clenched her teeth and remained friendly and firm in the face of whatever and whoever came her way.

I looked at Sorcha who smiled down at me, and then settled comfortably on a chair close to the fire. She had tied her red curls into a neat knot at the nape of her neck. Not one stray tendril was in sight, not even after a day's ride and organizing my bath. Her green eyes were a little tired, but still held that sparkle of amused alertness in their depths that I had liked about her from the beginning. "I should lecture you now about your duties as a wife and a queen," Sorcha said. "That's what Helmichis told me should be done while the bride is in the bridal bath. But probably you will get the relevant lecture tomorrow morning by a more appropriate lecturer."

I snorted. I had been told about the custom. "Arwen, Míri and Éowyn will help me get ready tomorrow and I am sure that they will have many wise things to say to me about being a wife and a queen." I _was_ sure about that. What I was not so sure about was my memory. I closed my eyes in bliss as I felt the warmth of the water spread through my body. I was glad that the custom dictating the ritual bath of the bride had been slightly… adapted to fit our situation. I was grateful beyond bounds for this chance at a real, relaxing, peaceful bath. I was probably the first member of our company to get the chance, too. Large thought the guesthouse was I doubted that there were enough tubs for every visiting dignitary or the facility to heat enough water to fill the tubs they did have at the same time. I was aware that I received a royal treatment indeed.

I sighed, closed my eyes tightly and submerged completely. I was warm and wet and comfortable. I felt my hair float around me like a strange species of sea-weed. When I came back up and gasped for air, I was greeted with Sorcha's soft chuckling. "You remind me of little Solas every now and again. You are a brave lady, and smart and all that, but sometimes you act like a child, all cute and care-free. I can see why Éomer finds you so intriguing."

I was hot enough from the bath so that the heat rising to my cheeks at this strange compliment was probably not noticeable. I sniffed and cleared my throat. "Would you help me with washing my hair, please? It's become such a mess."

Sorcha laughed at the abrupt change of topic. But she rose from her chair and picked up a bottle of Elaine's self-made shampoo from the table. My hair had become rather long and prone to impossible tangles I could not sort out on my own without a mirror. And there were not many mirrors around. I don't think there was any mirror at all in the guesthouse.

Sorcha pulled up a small stool behind me and poured a generous amount of the shampoo over my wet hair. With careful, tender movements she began rubbing it into my hair, gently massaging my head. If I could, I'd have purred. As I was not a cat and a cat probably would have objected to all that water, I settled for sighing contentedly. The first rinse was the water in the tub, simply submerging again, swishing the hair about in the water. The second rinse was a huge jug of clear water, kept warm at the fireside. Then my hair was wrung out and piled on the top of my head, with a towel pinned around it.

"How about going to bed now?" Sorcha asked. "Your hands are already wrinkled like the skin of a new-born baby." I looked at my fingers. They were pink and clean, really clean, under the nails and around the callused areas, too. And wrinkled. "Yes, you are right. I guess I should get out of the water, before I change beyond recognition…" Suddenly I felt the long ride of the day catching up with me. I yawned broadly. "And I guess I'm tired."

Sorcha helped me out of the bath, providing towels and my nightshirt. That was ordinarily Ini's job, but she knew that I was more relaxed with only her in here. And tonight was a special night, after all. The night before my wedding.

When I was ready to go to bed, there was a knock on the door, and Arwen, Éowyn, Míri and Elaine entered. They had three bottles of wine with them (Dorwinion red, no less)…

Apparently it was the duty of the female members of the bride's family and her female friends to tug the bride in the last night before her wedding. And that's what they did, eventually.

When I was lying in my bed finally, there was a broad smile on my face and stories of weddings and wedding nights echoed in my mind. I could not but wonder how my wedding night was going to be. My _brydniht_ with Éomer… how would it be? And wondering about that, I fell asleep.

* * *

I was woken with a kiss by Míri. She was already dressed. She sat on the edge of my bed and looked utterly beautiful. It felt as if I was kissed awake by the fairy god-mother. Her smile was wide and warm; her grey eyes sparkled with that hint of Númenorean silver. "Good morning, _iëll-nîn,_ my daughter." I blinked at her, for a moment still drowsy with the warmth of a peaceful slumber and happy dreams. Then I shot up in my bed like lightning. My heart was beating like a drum and I felt shivery with excitement. _Today was the day. **The day!**_

I was all set to jump out of the bed and into the tub with the hopefully warm water that had appeared in front of the fireplace again. I had acquired a sound sleep on my way from Erlangen to Edoras. And the ability to sleep just about anywhere.

"Stay put!" A bright voice reprimanded me. Éowyn came up to the bed, a tray with breakfast in her hands. "You have to eat something or you'll collapse before you get to serve the bridal ale."

I stayed put. Breakfast was grits, with maple syrup and – real coffee! Real, real coffee! Don't ask me how it got there, but the hobbits brought it from the Shire as a wedding-gift, because they knew how much I missed it. So I sat in my bed, smiling brilliantly at everyone in the room (Éowyn, Míri, Arwen, Elaine, Sorcha and Ini) and felt as if I had been handed the key to paradise. The coffee was… perfect. A light toffee colour. With real milk. And lots of sugar. Real sugar! Imported from Far-Harad and dreadfully expensive. But I did not care. Today was my wedding day. And this was the first coffee since… forever. I could not remember if I had had any coffee in Bree. But I certainly had had none since then. I stared into the cup. I had had no coffee in almost two years! "They are so sweet!" I said to no one in particular. I felt all warm and loved and happy. I was on a real caffeine-high, no doubt. But it made it no less true. I was loved and happy. Éowyn snorted. "Very sweet. Little devils…" But she grinned. She liked the hobbits very much, especially Merry who had shared the horrors of the battle at the Pelennor with her.

Then it was time to get washed and dressed.

* * *

Elaine and Sorcha had shaken out the wedding gown as soon as we had arrived yesterday and hung it on a dress maker's dummy to air it and get out any creases. With any normal gown this would have been impossible, after two weeks in a chest. But Darla of the Golden Scissors had kept in mind that the gown would have to be transported to Edoras. She had used green velvet and crinkly, stiff, very beautiful and regal brocade in a colour somewhere between gold and green.

I looked at the magnificent gown. I released my breath in a rather shivery sigh. I stepped awkwardly into the tub and threw my dressing gown over the stool. I felt silly. And I'm sure I looked silly, too, buck-naked, covered in goose-bumps and my cheeks hot with embarrassment. Éowyn looked at me for a moment. I could see how her lips were twitching. Arwen gave me a sweet smile. But it was Éowyn who picked up the jug with the water for the ritual ablutions I had to undergo according to Rohirric law and custom before I could be dressed in my wedding gown. "Remember, you will be queen," Éowyn said her voice stern. "Your responsibility extends to all the people of Rohan, every man, every woman and every child." She upended the ewer. Cold water sloshed down my breast, over my stomach and down my thighs into the tub. A small yelp tore from my mouth. Then I was dancing back and forth in the tub, shivering violently. Then it was Arwen's turn. The queen of Gondor, her expression soft, her belly gently rounded with her first pregnancy stepped to the side of my tub. In her hands she held a bottle of shower gel – well, the hand made variety of it, anyway, a mixture of oil and soap and herbs and probably egg yolk. It smelled heavenly. She allowed it to flow gently across my breasts and my back, before she spoke. "Remember, you will be a wife," she said. "In your hands lies the honour of your husband. In your heart lies his happiness."

When Arwen turned away, Míri took her place. Carefully she poured warm, clear water all over me to wash away the fragrant shampoo. "Remember, you will be a mother," she whispered to me. "Patience you will need and courage. Whatever may come to pass."

Sorcha held out a towel to me. As I stepped into the expanse of clean white linen, Sorcha smiled at me. There were tears in her eyes, but she smiled. "Remember, you will be a lover," she said. "When all is said and done, love is the bond that will keep you alive."

I huddled in the towel, when Elaine walked up to me. The healer of Tarnost looked at me with a serious, intense expression on her face that I could not interpret. She held a silver tray in her hands with a small phial of perfume oil on it. "Remember who you are," she told me. "Because if you forget who you are, not even love will help you."

* * *

I have no idea which part of the advice I was given was traditional Rohirric advice to young brides. I had no time to really think about it either, just then, although I have thought about everything I was told that morning many times since then. But then and there, I could only daub the perfume oil on my wrists, between my breast and behind my ears and sit down, to allow Sorcha to brush out my hair, and to allow Míri to do my make-up: soft powder and some rouge, kohl for the eyes and a glittering green-golden powder for the eye-lids, and a paste for the lips that was a deep earthen red.

Éowyn helped me into the cream coloured shift. Then Elaine adjusted the light-green under-skirt around my hips. Míri was responsible to get me into the dress of green velvet. Arwen and Elaine were both necessary to drape the gold and green rustling brocade over the velvet and drape the train the way it was supposed to look. Sorcha spread my hair over my back, using a brush drenched in a spicy hair tonic to make it well behaved and shiny. Arwen fastened the golden necklace with the green elvish jewel around my neck and giggled like a teenager at the – for an elf – unusual task of securing the beautiful, tear-shaped golden earrings inlaid with the tiny green beryl-stones in my ears. Gimli had not promised too much. The jewellery he had fashioned for the precious elvish beryl was more beautiful than anything I had ever seen before. Somehow the dwarf had managed to combine the art-nouveau feeling of elvish jewellery with the down-to-earth Celtic style of the Rohirrim. The result was beautiful, intriguing, and breathtaking.

Suddenly everyone stepped back and looked at me, with smiles all over their faces.

I was ready. Under the ministrations of my friends I had grown almost calm and relaxed. Now, ready to go, my nervousness returned twofold. I swallowed dryly, and my stomach dropped sickeningly. But my adoptive mother gave me a brilliant, reassuring smile. Éowyn winked at me. And the most beautiful woman alive sighed appreciatively and said softly: "You are so beautiful, Lothíriel!"

I wanted to hug them.

But my first movement was greeted with panicky cries of what I might and might not do, do that in the end I simply stayed where I was, unmoving. At that moment there was a small knock on the door. The door opened, and little Solas entered, almost hidden behind a crown of gold and blossoms. The tiny girl curtsied prettily and offered the bridal crown of flowers to me. I bent down as carefully as I could and accepted the crown, trying hard not to cry. Solas' eyes were big and round and blue, and she was biting on her lower lip in intense concentration. "Thank you, Solas," I said, my voice trembling like my hands which now held the crown of flowers that was supposed to cover my head today. The flowers were yellow and white, with leaves of the same deep green colour of my velvet dress. I recognized the blossoms as a plant closely related to the flowers called _mallos _which bloom on the meadows of the Lebennin. But I did not know the name it went by in Rohan. They had sweet, faintly spicy scent that reminded me of vanilla.

Míri finally took the crown of flowers from me. "It's in you name, you know," she said softly, when she placed the crown on my head. "Lothíriel means 'maid crowned with blossoms'. Your mother would be so proud." I thought of my mother, her eccentric ideas, her waywardness, her vagueness, how she would drive me crazy with her determination that fate held something special for every one of us. I clenched my teeth and widened my eyes, attempting to prevent any of my emotions turning into tears. I nodded to Míri. "I think she is." I said hoarsely. "I _know_ she is."

* * *

Then it was time to leave the guesthouse. This time I was accompanied only by my women friends and female relatives. My adoptive father had passed over his guardianship to Éomer at the _brydgifu_, so he was only allowed to wait and watch along with the other men riding with the entourage. In the yard Hiswa was ready to go. Blossoms had been braided into the stallion's mane, and tiny golden bells were attached to his reins and bridle. The saddle was cream coloured leather embossed in gold. Hiswa was beautiful. And he knew it. He held his head high; his liquid dark eyes were sparkling. When I left the house a cheer went up from the waiting men and women of our entourage as well as from the gathered onlookers – the staff of the guesthouse, the guests and the simply curious. Hiswa tossed his head, just lightly, as if he knew that he should not dislodge the flowers from his mane. But he neighed loudly. A proud, challenging neigh. Then someone who had been standing behind the _meara_ stepped around it and came to the front. My breath caught in my throat. _Éomer!_ Éomer King! In green and gold and red, splendid, tall, muscular, golden mane like a lion just touching his shoulders, his dark eyes blazing – king, hero, rider! He did not smile. He only looked at me. That deep, dark look.

I melted towards him in a rustle of brocades and a soft swish of velvet. He caught me in an embrace that was just as deep as his eyes, and warmer than the sunshine. "It's time, my love. My Lothíriel. Are you ready?" I tilted my head back, relaxing in his arms. "Yes," I replied and grinned at him. "I'm ready for just about everything!"

* * *

This time Éomer mounted first, and Elladan and Elrohir put in a joint effort to have me seated in front of him without getting a wrinkle into my gowns. I think they managed to accomplish this almost gracefully, and if they did not, it was certainly not their fault. Anyway, suddenly I found myself up on Hiswa's back, with Éomer's arm holding me tightly against him. My gown billowed around my legs and Sorcha hastened to fasten the train to the saddle.

Elladan and Elrohir stood at either side of Hiswa. Their long, almost raven black hair flowed in the breeze, their cool silver eyes sparkled. "_Galu en eldar no go·len!_ The blessing of the Eldar may be with you!" "Thank you, my lords," Éomer said and raised his hand in salute to the elves. "Thank you," I echoed. "For everything!" They smiled at us and stepped back to let us pass. "Let's go!" I cried and tried to turn around so that I could look at Éomer's face. "Stop fidgeting," my bridegroom growled, tightened his hold on me and then spurred on his horse. With a sound between a snort and a neigh, Hiswa jumped forwards and galloped from the yard of the guesthouse, leaving the cheers of entourage and onlookers to die away behind us.

* * *

The ride to Edoras passed in a blur of speed and rushing air, and the feeling of Éomer holding me tight. Then we were through the gilded gates of Edoras and the hooves of Hiswa were like drum beats against the cobbled stones of the pavement. Once inside the city's walls, Éomer reined in Hiswa and slowed him down to a walk. Behind us our entourage of friends, guards and guests was in hot pursuit. The ground was shaking from the rhythm of the many hooves following us from Snowbourne River.

Before us the streets of Edoras were decked out festively with flowers and garlands of leaves and many lanterns waiting to be lit for a whole night of celebrations and festivities. The streets were lined with people. It was impossible that the people gathered at the sides of the road and at the windows were only the inhabitants of Edoras. There were simply too many of them. I had the impression that everyone who could rider or walk to Edoras had done so for this occasion. Of course that's impossible, but it certainly felt as if every man, woman and child for hundreds of miles around had turned up in Edoras today. Any other horse would have bolted and run. Not Hiswa. Proud and beautiful he walked up the streets towards the golden hall of Meduseld, accepting the applause as his due.

I saw a blur of many golden heads, some lighter, some darker, and smiles. Smiles wherever I looked. And flowers. As it had been in Minas Tirith, flowers and fragrant herbs were everywhere: in the air, on the ground, braided into the golden hair of cute little girls dropping into deep curtsies as we passed them by. It was dizzying. It was unbelievable. I clutched at Éomer's arm and I thought my heart would burst with the excitement and the exhilaration of the moment.

Then we had reached the bottom of the stairs leading up to the terrace in front of the Golden Hall of Meduseld. Éomer dismounted with practiced ease, in a single, fluid movement. Once on the ground he turned towards me. "You have no idea how long I hade dreamed of this moment," he said, his voice almost hoarse with intensity. I had to blink back tears, but succeeded. A panicky thought flashed through my brain. _How to get off that horse without ruining my dress? _"Can you get at the train of the dress?" I whispered, remembering at the last moment that the long train had been fastened to the saddle to keep it safe. Éomer grinned at me and loosened the train with an easy gesture. He carefully spread out the train of my gown, and then he extended his arms to me. "Come, my love! I will catch you!"

But I noticed that he was a little pale, and his gesture was not as exuberant as I had seen it a year ago. I inhaled deeply. Now it was time for me to throw myself into his arms and his life once and for all. _A leap of faith…_

I was in the air, and then I was in Éomer's arms again before I had time for another thought.

I felt Éomer shiver slightly before he released me. I realized that Éomer King was just as nervous as I was. That was **not** a comforting thought. _Keep calm, Lothy! You survived Moria and orcs. Getting married can't be **that** bad._ I looked at Éomer. He was pale. His dark eyes seemed huge in his face. Then Éomer offered me his arm, to lead me up the stairs to the terrace in front of the Golden Hall where we would exchange our vows.

* * *

We climbed the stairs very slowly. The hem of my dress touched the ground and was pretty heavy, too – to say nothing of the long, rustling train trailing along behind me. Every second I expected to step onto the hem of the dress and tumble back down the stairs, taking Éomer with me… landing in a heap of torn clothes and dust in front of Hiswa and the cheering (jeering?) crowd.

But then we were suddenly on the terrace, and I inhaled deeply and squared my shoulders, looking around me. The first thing I saw were the great doors of the hall, their golden ornaments glinting in the sunlight. In front of the door two white riders were standing guard, the silver heads of their spears flashing brightly. I recognized them. One was Éothain, a rider of Éomer's company, and the other was Geirolf, Erkenbrand's squire.

To the left of the door was our welcoming committee: Erkenbrand who had had the rule of the Riddermark during Éomer's absence, the Lords of the five provinces and their ladies, and the Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel. Bright turquoise eyes met mine; a cat-like smile crinkled the corners of the lady's mouth. A silvery whisper echoed in my mind: _And so we meet again, Lothíriel, ranger out of Erlangen. Do not be afraid. It won't hurt._ And then she winked at me.

Éomer led me to the right side of the terrace. There we waited for our guests from Gondor. We did not have to wait long. Aragorn, Arwen, Faramir, Éowyn, Imrahil, Míriël and the others must have ridden like the wind. I had just enough time to take in blue skies, golden sunshine and the gleaming white of the mountain tops of the Ered Nimrais to the East and the South of Edoras. Then Aragorn leapt up the stairs to the terrace, followed by a flushed and laughing Arwen, followed by a red-cheeked, slightly dishevelled Éowyn and a Faramir whose expression was caught between a grin and a frown. Elladan, Elrohir, Legolas and Gimli were the next to climb the stairs. Behind them were Imrahil and Míri, and then all the others, Sorcha, Elaine, the boys, Elfhelm…

Finally everyone was assembled. Alerted by some secret signal the bells in the towers of the battlements were struck. Their sonorous, brassy voices echoed through the streets of Edoras. The crowds fell silent. Our guests fell silent. Faces turned towards us, bright with smiles, alight with happiness. Well, most of them. Gimli frowned.

I knew why he smiled the very next moment. Legolas produced a long, straight object – for all that I could see he conjured it out of thin air. But wherever it came from, suddenly the wood-elf held it in his hands: a large and probably heavy sword. Gimli reached fore the hilt of the sword, Legolas kept the tip in his hands. Holding the sword in their hands, elf and dwarf came towards us, and offered the sword to me. Due to the way of its presentation the hilt of the sword was held very low, and the tip and the blade were more or less up in the air. Gimli scowled at me. Legolas was obviously hard put not to grin. I was simply relieved that they had held their promise and made a new sword for Éomer, a sword that be an honour to its wielder, its makers and the one to give it away.

Now, I thought. _Now!_ Curiously enough in Rohan it is the bride who begins the ceremony of the wedding. The bride draws the new sword. Only when the new sword is drawn, the old sword can be offered. _As if to give a reluctant bride a last chance to end everything…_

I looked at my friends, Legolas (almost grinning), Gimli (still scowling). I felt Éomer squeeze my arm for a second and then he released me. With a pounding heart I took the sword from the hands of my friends, the elf and the dwarf. They bowed to us and went back to the others. The sword was heavy in my hands, and I felt a shivery excitement sweep through me.

I had to draw the sword now.

My left hand gripped the scabbard. The right sought the hilt of the sword. I gripped the sword tightly. It felt good. Smooth, cool, strong. I inhaled quickly and drew the sword almost at the same time. Silver bright it flashed through the air, hissing as if it could slice the air itself.

It was a beautiful sword. It combined the best of elvish and dwarvish smith craft. It was the strongest steel you could find in Middle-earth. It was the most elegant and well-balanced sword that I had ever seen – apart from Anduril maybe. I gasped at the sight. I lowered it slowly to have a look at the blade.

Elvish runes were engraved on the blade, flowing tengwar on one side, bold Cirth on the other. By now I was able to read both scripts quite easily, at least when they were so well executed as on the blade of this sword.

The tengwar read: _"Beriaron e·mellyn, dagnir e·gyth."_ – "Protector of friends, bane of enemies."

The Cirth was: _"Lothíriel mec heht gewyrcan, Gimli ge Legolas me macode, Éomer me ah."_ – "Lothíriel bade me to be made, Gimli and Legolas made me, Éomer owns me."

It was perfect. Utterly perfect. Breathtaking.

I held it out for everyone to see, and then resheathed it in a hopefully fluid motion.

Now our wedding ceremony could begin.

* * *

**A/N: **I know I'm evil. But this kept getting longer and longer and today someone mailed me asking if this was the end… so I thought I'd better give you what I have at the moment.

And I promise:

THIS IS NOT THE END!

But: I have a really busy real life at the moment (did I mention a degree paper?), so please be patient and keep faith. For news check my LiveJournal.


	87. Meine Hochzeit!

**87. Hochzeit!**

When I had the new sword in its scabbard again Númendil approached and bowed to me. He would hold the new sword for me until it was time to present it to Éomer. The boy's expression was solemn; he was intent on his task. But when our eyes met there was a faint smile on his face. He stepped back, holding the sword at chest level, presenting it to the crowd.

I turned to face Éomer and suddenly my nervousness was gone. The crowd of family, friends, guests, dignitaries and onlookers was gone. There was only Éomer and I and above us the blue sky with a golden sun. Éomer looked at me and there was something like astonished disbelief in his eyes. For a moment he simply stared at me, as if I had grown wings. He had to swallow dryly before he could speak. When he did speak, his voice was a little husky, deep as always, but filled with a warmth and tenderness that left me giddy.

"People of Rohan, friends from Gondor, Lothlórien, Erin Lasgalen and the Shire, I ask you to be my witnesses here today, as my bride, the Lady Lothíriel, formerly of Dol Amroth and I, Éomer, son of Éomund, King of Rohan and the Riddermark, exchange the vows of marriage before Eru, the Valar and all our people."

There was applause and cheers rang out. Éomer had to wait a few minutes before he could go on. When the noise finally died down, Éomer smiled at me and I could see how he inhaled deeply. Without taking his eyes off me he drew his sword. It was a heavy Rohirric sword, made of grey-blue steel. Its blade was well kept and it was sharp as a razor, but the leather-wrapped hilt showed some wear. Éomer had carried this sword every day of his life since he was judged to be a grown man of Rohan and was allowed to ride on his first patrol as a young _éored_ of the Mark. Its name was _Gúthwinë_, battle-friend. He carefully placed the sword on his palms and offered it to me.

"I give you this sword to save for our sons to have and to use. I give you this sword to be the shield of your family and your people in an hour of need – may this hour never come!"

"May it never come!" echoed the crowd.

Normally only the first sentence was used. The second part made me the shield-lady of the people of Rohan: the queen. There would be a ceremony with a crown placed on my head in the Golden Hall in a couple of days, but it was this sentence which really made me the Queen of Rohan.

I took the hilt of _Gúthwinë_ and held it high, showing it to the crowd. Wild whoops and cheers erupted from the gathered people. Merry, acting as Éomer's squire came up to my side and offered me the scabbard. I sheathed the sword and gave it back to Merry. Then I turned around to take the new sword from the hands of Númendil.

As Éomer had done, I carefully, slowly placed the sword on my outstretched palms. I knew that it would be sharp as a razor and I did not want to end up with slashed palms on my wedding day. The blade was cool and heavy on my hands. I felt my arms tremble with the weight of the sword and the excitement of the day.

I looked into Éomer's eyes and felt my heart beat a happy, lilting rhythm of exhilaration.

"To keep safe your wife, your family and your people you must bear a blade. With this sword keep safe our home and our people."

Only then Éomer lowered his gaze and looked at the sword. Awe and joy at the wonderful craftsmanship flowed across his face. He carefully read the tengwar inscription on the blade. When he raised his head, he sought my eyes. For a moment he held my gaze, and I knew that it was perfect. I smiled and inclined my head just a little. I felt my heart swell with pride. Éomer inclined his head in a subtle bow. His face sombre, his eyes dark and filled with fire, he reached for the sword and raised it in a flashing arc of silver lightning, holding it high into the air. "_Beriaron e·mellyn, dagnir e·gyth!_ Protector of friends, bane of enemies! This blade was made in friendship and is commanded to protect it as long as I shall live!"

The applause that went up all around was deafening. The bells of the watchtowers were struck again, their brassy cheer adding to the happy clamour of the inhabitants of Edoras and the guests from near and far.

* * *

The next part of the ceremony was the exchange of the rings and the vows. As Éomer's only male relative – and that only by marriage – the duty of presenting the rings to us and join our hands on the hilt of _Beriaron_ fell to Faramir. Faramir, dressed in the black and white of the steward of Gondor, waited for the general din to die down. Then he walked towards us, a small wooden box in his hand. Seeing the box in our friend's hands caused my heart to skip a beat. The ceremony of exchanging rings and the vows to go with this ceremony were hauntingly familiar, as if the earth and Middle-earth were not separated by an endless void of time and space, but only by a heartbeat or a thought.

Faramir came to stand in front of us and smiled at us, a slow, sure smile of friendship and blessing. "People of Rohan, friends from Gondor, Lothlórien, Erin Lasgalen and the Shire, we are gathered here today in the sight of Eru, Bema and all the Valar, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy matrimony. Marriage is held holy by the One and the Valar, because in the love that lives in a marriage of man and woman, the spirit of the Flame Imperishable burns brightly and the Song of the Ainulindalë rings true. Together husband and wife may add their verse to the Ainulindalë in a way they could not as a man and a woman on their own. With steel and rings and oaths the union of Lothíriel and Éomer shall now be wrought, with love it shall be blessed, with happiness it shall be crowned, from this day onward until the end of Eä."

Faramir paused for a moment and opened the small wooden box. On dark green velvet I saw the gleam of gold and a flash of brilliant green. Beryl again! Faramir held the open box out to us. Then he continued. "Therefore I now ask you, Éomer, son of Éomund, wilt thou have this Woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her, in sickness and in health; and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?"

Éomer looked at me. His face was filled with a mixture of awe, tenderness and love. His eyes were glowing. He smiled at me. And before I could ask myself how it was at all possible that I was standing here, in Edoras, in Middle-earth, with this wonderful man about to marry, Éomer opened his mouth and, his deep, dark voice loud and clear said: "I will."

Then Faramir turned to me: "Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil, wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?"

I looked at Éomer. My heart was in my mouth. I felt dizzy with happiness. I swallowed and moistened my lips. I exhaled deeply. Then I answered, as clearly as possible: "I will."

Faramir took Éomer's right hand and my right hand and clasped our hands together. The touch of Éomer's hand sent heat like a flash of lightning racing through my body.Faramir raised our joined hands high, for all to see. Cheers went up from the assembled.

Faramir grinned at us. When the crowd had quieted down again, he went on. "Now," Faramir said, "I ask you to make your oaths to each other that shall bind heart to heart, body to body and life to life, for as long as you both shall live!"

I had spent days to learn the oaths by heart. They were heart-wrenchingly similar to the vows I knew from back on earth.

Éomer held my gaze and my hand, and then he spoke the holy words, his voice firm and mellow. "I, Éomer, son of Éomund, take thee Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, for fairer or fouler, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us depart, according to Eru's and the Valar's ordinance; and thereunto I plight thee my troth."

Now it was my turn. I clutched desperately at Éomer's hand, my heart racing suddenly. When I started, my voice sounded at first thin and frightened, but when I reached the part where I had to say Éomer's name, I suddenly grew calm, and my voice was as clear and bright. "I, Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil, take thee Éomer, son of Éomund, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to be bonny and buxom at bed and at board, to love and to cherish, till death us depart, according to Eru's and the Valar's holy ordinance; and thereunto I plight thee my troth."

Faramir let go of our hands. Slowly we lowered our hands. I felt reluctant about letting go of Éomer. I think he felt the same, because he suddenly grinned at me. A grin that said, just you wait, in a few hours it won't be only our hands that I won't let go off. I released his hand then.

Now it was time for the rings. Rings to bind us in love and happiness, in faith and honour unto the end of our lives. To invoke the One's and the Valar's blessings on the rings, Faramir held them high into the air, into the directions of the mountains, which are the symbols of the One.

"Bless these Rings, Eru Ilúvatar," Faramir intoned. "That those who wear them, that give and receive them, may be ever faithful to one another, remain in your peace,and live and grow old together in your love, under their own _Telperion_ and _Laurelin_, and seeing their children's children, may pass beyond the circles of the world in bliss."

At that point I started crying.

Merry offered _Beriaron_ to Éomer, who carefully took it, holding it horizontally and as still as he could. Faramir offered the box with the rings to Éomer, who took the smaller one and placed it carefully on the hilt of the sword. Moving very slowly, so that the ring would not fall down off the hilt, Éomer extended his new sword to me, a symbol of the trust he placed in me.

With trembling fingers I picked up the ring. Éomer gave the sword back to Merry and reached for my right hand that held the ring. Taking the ring, he placed it onto the thumb of my left hand.

"With this Ring I thee wed," he said, his voice husky with emotion.

He placed the ring on my index finger.

His face filled with a happiness that knew no words and yet found the right words to say in this ancient oath. "And with my body I thee honour."

At last he slipped the ring on my ring finger, where it would stay from now on until the day I died. "With all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the name of Eru Ilúvatar and all the Valar and before all our people."

Then it was my turn.

My fingers cold and trembling I picked up the ring. The ring was quite heavy. The jewel of my ring was a multi-faceted, perfectly cut. Éomer's ring held a jewel, too, but its surface was flat and carved with the royal seal of Rohan, the head of a horse.I released a shuddering breath and held the ring to the broad tip of Éomer's thumb. Éomer's thumb was broad and quite long. Suddenly I remembered a joke about the size of a man's thumb in relation to his… ahem… A horrible urge to giggle rose from the pit of my stomach. I resisted, smiled broadly, and my fingers stopped trembling.

"With this Ring I thee wed," I said. I retrieved the ring from Éomer's magnificent thumb and slipped it over the tip of his index finger.

"With my body I thee honour." I took the ring from his index finger and firmly slid it over his ring finger and down towards his hand.

"With the love of my heart and my soul I thee endow. In the name of Eru Ilúvatar and all the Valar and before all our people." I ended, holding on to Éomer's hand.

Merry offered the sword to us again.

"You first," Éomer whispered. I nodded imperceptibly.

I reached for the hilt of _Beriaron. _The grip of the sword felt smooth and good against my palm. Then Éomer's hand covered mine and my stomach did a somersault. Once again it felt as if a current of electricity passed through our bodies, making the tiny hairs of my body stand on end, making me shiver and gasp with barely concealable desire.

Together we lifted the sword for all to see.

"Joined by steel, joined by oaths and joined by rings, I declare that you, Éomer, son of Éomund, and you, Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil, are now wedded husband and wife, from this day onward until you pass beyond the circles of this world." Faramir called out. Then he turned to the crowd. "Ye people of Rohan, ye guests and friends from near and far, I ask you to witness and acclaim what you have seen and heard here today: Éomer, son of Éomund, and Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil, are now husband and wife, blessed by Eru Ilúvatar and the Valar, joined by steel and oath and rings. Now witness and acclaim what ye have seen and heard, ye people of Rohan!"

At that everyone started shouting at the top of their lungs. I understood shouts of: "We hear! We see!" "Hail, Éomer and Lothíriel!" "Hail!" "Wes ðu hal!"

But for the most it sounded like banshees screaming, it was a level of noise to bring down the mountains, and the shouting and screaming and clapping and thumping did not seem to end.

Dazed from the sudden noise I barely noticed that Éomer lowered the sword and gently pried it from my grip. Then I found myself in his embrace, his soft, warm, firm lips on mine, and I was so dazed that I barely noticed the noise around us anymore.

* * *

"Now it's time for feasting and dancing, for eating and drinking, for singing and merry making until the moon wanes!" Faramir shouted suddenly, scaring Éomer and me apart.

For a moment I blinked at the Prince of Ithilien without comprehension.

"Don't you want to carry your new wife into your home, my friend?" Faramir winked at Éomer.

For a moment Éomer looked as confused as I felt. Then a huge, happy grin spread across his face. "Would you like that, my wife,_ wif min_?"

Suddenly the highs and lows of nervousness and perfect calm that I had been through today seemed to dissipate into a feeling of relaxed happiness. I gave a small, happy giggle and said: "There's nothing I'd love more!"

Right on cue the door guards thrust open the doors of the Golden Hall. Merry hurried over to the doors and placed Éomer's sword across the threshold.

Éomer picked me up, and Éowyn was suddenly there to pick up the trailing train of my dress, her cheeks streaked with tears, but smiling brightly. "_Leofest sweostor min!_ My most beloved sister!" She said and grinned at me, hurrying to keep up with Éomer who was making straight for the doors of Meduseld.

Without a moment's hesitation Éomer stepped across sword and threshold, to the applause and cheers of family, friends and guests who were crowding towards the hall behind us.

* * *

As we entered the hall, music started.

A mixed group of Rohirric drummers, guitarists and trumpeters and harpers from Dol Amroth were assembled to the right of the door. It was a triumphant fanfare that accompanied us as Éomer carried me to the thrones at the far end of the hall. On the dais where the gilded throne of the king surveyed the hall, a smaller throne had been placed next to the seat of the king.

The throne of the queen. After many years with only a king, Rohan again had a queen.

Éomer ascended the dais and carefully lowered me in front of the smaller throne, allowing his sister to arrange my skirts and the rain of my dress so that I could be seated comfortably. Only when I was sitting he released me with the softest of kisses, to the applause and cheers of our guests, who had followed us into the hall.

Merry had picked up the sword again, sheathed it and now stood to the left of Éomer's throne, holding the sword for his lord and king. Sometime later he would be relieved by Númendil. During the celebrations now weapons were carried, but the new sword sworn to protect me had to be kept ready for Éomer throughout the day. With Merry and Númendil taking turns as squire respectively page I was fine with that, but to have one of our friends standing and holding a sword all day and well into the night that would have been too cruel. And I knew that both of them were very proud to act as squire and page to Éomer on his wedding day. I smiled at Merry, and the hobbit winked at me, surreptitiously giving me a thumbs-up-sign.

Then I turned to look at the hall. Garlands of flowers, many bright lanterns; long tables decked out for a feast in front of the dais, a room for dancing in front of the doors, and the music was still sweeping, drawing people into the hall. Éowyn had remained at my side, watching the crowd filling up the hall. "When everyone is seated, you present the bridal ale to you husband," she reminded me. "To begin the feast."

I nodded. I had been very well briefed on every step of the ceremonies and the festivities of the day. And night. My stomach did another flip. _And night!_

"We bring out a toast and drink, and then Éomer passes the goblet to Aragorn. Then we sit down together and the feast begins," I murmured, reciting the relevant procedures.

Éowyn smiled. "Exactly. Do you think you will be able to eat now?"

I grinned at my friend and sister-in-law. _Sister-in-law!_ "Yes, I think I am. It's more than a little surprising, but I really think I am hungry."

* * *

Finally everyone was seated at the long tables. Servants were hurrying around, providing beer, mead, wine and cider for every guest. When everyone had something to drink, the goblet with the bridal ale would be brought to me. It was the huge ceremonial goblet I had seen Éowyn offer to Aragorn as stirrup cup many months ago, before we had set out for the paths of the dead. It was a heavy goblet made of gold, set with green jewels and carved with an ancient Rohirric blessing.

Suddenly the mistress Gosvintha appeared at the edge of the dais. In her hands she held the goblet with the bridal ale. She widened her eyes at me in an unspoken question, "Now?"

I quickly cast a glance around the hall. Everyone was seated and seemed to have a goblet or a mug in front of him. I nodded to her. She inclined her head in acknowledgement and ascended the dais, swiftly crossing the distance towards me. Even with the heavy goblet in her hands, she managed a dignified curtsy. "Bless you, my lady!" She said in her throaty, dark voice.

"Thank you, Gosvintha," I replied, rose from the throne and reached for the goblet.

"Careful, my lady, it's heavy!" The older woman cautioned me.

I pressed my lips together and nodded. I knew that I mustn't spill a drop of the bridal ale. Spilling the bridal ale meant bad luck, infertility. The goblet _was_ heavy! But as I had expected this, my grip was firm. I turned around to Éomer who was sitting on the throne of the king, waiting.

As the guests caught sight of the goblet, the noise of many talking and laughing voices was hushed. Silence spread through the hall of Meduseld. Once again, every man, every woman and every child looked at Éomer and me.

The fragrance of roastedmeat wafted into the hall from the hall-way where the servants were already waiting with the first course, ready to start serving as soon as the bridal ale was brought out and the traditional toast was made.

I smiled at Éomer.

My facial muscles were hurting from smiling so much.

But I could not keep from smiling. There was so much happiness inside of me that simply needed a way out.

I held the goblet out to Éomer and recited carefully the Rohirric words that went with the goblet of bridal ale:

"Ale I bring thee, thou lord of _mearas_,  
With strength blended and brightest honour;  
'Tis mized with magic and mighty songs,  
With goodly spells, wish-speeding runes:  
Ale I bring thee, thou lord of my life,  
For blessing Iask thee!"

Éomer accepted the goblet. He gave me his deep, warm smile. Then he raised the goblet to the assembled.

"To my wife, to _wif min_, my own Lothíriel!" He cried, his voice clear and loud.

He raised the goblet to his lips and drank deeply. When he lowered the goblet again, his lips and beard were wet with the ale.

Then he passed the goblet back to me.

"To my husband," I replied. "To _hlaford min_, my Éomer!" I put the goblet to my lips and swallowed.

The ale was strong. Dark, and strong. It flowed coolly across my tongue and down my throat, tasting of malt and a hint of honey. I gave the goblet to Éowyn. Éowyn walked to the centre of the hall, between the long tables and the dais of the thrones and held the goblet high.

"To Éomer and Lothíriel," she called out.

Raising their goblets and mugs to us, everyone in the hall echoed her toast. "**To Éomer and Lothíriel!**"

Éomer and I sat down again.

At once servants hurried over to us, carrying a table that was placed in front of the thrones on the dais. Quickly the table was laid out with the finest white linen and silver tables, goblets and cutlery. There were bowls of white porcelain filled with rose-scented water in which rose petals floated.

A fanfare was sounded and the doors to the hall-way were opened. An army of servants flooded the room, bearing trays with bowls and plates filled with all the delicacies a good harvest in Rohan and Gondor could yield.

We were served a feast, not a menu.

There were three courses as such, but each course included a soup, was followed by a wide range of baked, roasted, and boiled dishes, and finally an elaborate 'sotelty', a lifelike – more or less edible – scene sculpted in coloured marzipan and cakes. The only thing that was relatively sparse at this banquet was fresh fish, because it was too difficult to transport it to Edoras.

Each course was interrupted frequently by music, songs, artistic presentations of various kinds – fire-eaters, jugglers, acrobats and clowns.

That way the feast went on throughout the day and lasted well into the night.

The banquet was a feast that satisfied even hungry hobbits and greedy dwarves.

It started with pastries with pine nuts and cakes with almonds; made with real sugar, no less, precious, imported sugar from the hot and lush lands of Far-Harad. There was cabbage flavoured with cinnamon and cloves. Fresh mushrooms. A variety of vegetable stews and salads.

Delicate "_potages_" or soups. Rohirric _brede_, of course, brown bread flavoured with ale and various preserves to go with the bread. Tarts filled with spicy veal and dates.

Stuffed roast of suckling pig. I could not eat that, because they had left the head and the feet and even the little tail intact. In its snout they had inserted a red apple. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the sight of the piglet. I preferred the goose. This was served in a sauce of grapes and garlic and did not resemble the living animal so horrifyingly.

Apart from that there were roasted partridges, pheasants, quail; whole calves' heads (gilded and silvered – which I did not try either), capons (still in their plumage – I have no idea how they managed that!) and pigeons, a whole wild boar, still festooned with its long yellow teeth. Roast sheep with a sour sauce of cherries.

Then there were various spicy and sweet pies. Spicy and sweet dishes were served at the same time which was quite confusing, but made for interesting combinations of aromas. There were tiny sausages and meatballs, seasoned to a very hot flavour. Quinces cooked with sugar, cinnamon, pine nuts, and artichokes. Uncounted tarts and cakes, and an abundance of candied fruits and spice. An assortment of cheese, served with grapes, dates and raisins.

Mulled wine laced with spices. Mead. Ale and beer. White wine from Gondor. Red wine from Dorwinion. Cider from the Wold.

Soon the first guests were singing merrily along with the musicians when the banquet was interrupted for some entertainment. I tasted a little bit of many dishes, taking care only to sip my wine. I knew there would be dancing later on, and I did not want to fall over my feet dancing with Éomer on our wedding.

* * *

Suddenly the hall fell silent. The music had just sounded a lilting fanfare to announce another break. But then it had suddenly stopped. Now everyone was silent and watching the tall, stooped figure of what looked like an old man and a small boy walking to the centre of the hall, between the tables and the dais.

I gasped with astonishment as I recognized the man. It was the harper from the field of Cormallen. I turned to Éomer, who smiled at me and nodded. He knew how much I had liked the singer.

"He came to Edoras in the spring time. Apparently he spent the winter in some mountain village up in the Ered Nimrais. That's where he found the boy, too. He asked to stay here, in Meduseld until the boy is old enough to take the road."

"And what did you say?" I asked. I hoped that Éomer had allowed them to stay. Théoden's minstrel, Gléowine, was a wizened old man who had never really gotten over then old king's death. The singer from Cormallen seemed to be quite old, too, but there was an air of strength to the way he carried himself, and his voice was untouched by his years.

Éomer smiled at me. "I told him he could stay as long as he wants. And I asked him to compose a song to my own Lothíriel, my blossom-lady."

We turned our attention to the old man and the small boy. The man gave only the slightest indication of a bow. The boy bowed as deeply as he could.

He was cute little boy of perhaps five or six years, with flaxen hair and slivery-blue eyes. The man nodded to the boy, the gesture almost hidden under his mane of straggling grey hair. He gripped his old harp firmly and began to play.

By now I was able to judge the quality of harp play – with the harp players of Dol Amroth counted as the best in all of Arda it was hard not to. But this strange minstrel, with his blinded eyes and his crippled hand made even the best of the best pale in comparison.He played a hauntingly sweet tune. Even without words, it seemed to sing of love and home and family, of a happiness that could last for a lifetime.

But this time it was not the old bard who sang. It was the little boy. In a voice as high and pure and clear as the voice of any angel, the boy sang a love song in Rohirric. A love song of Lothíriel and Éomer.

I never noticed when I started crying. But when the boy finished his song, I saw that Éomer's eyes also glittered with tears.

"Thank you," I whispered. "Oh, thank you!"

Éomer's hand tightened around mine in a wordless answer.

* * *

Then it was time for dancing and merry-making. And that was the time I lost control. Not that I had not enjoyed myself up until that moment, but I had taken care about how I moved, smiled, ate. I had been exhilarated and happy and all that, but still a little self-conscious.

However, when Éomer held me against his chest and swept me away to the fast and merry rhythm of a traditional Rohirric dance, every rational thought fled from my brain. Everything was music and laughter and I was whirling, swirling, flying in Éomer's arms, feeling his hands, seeing his smile, smelling his spicy perfume.

I did not only dance with Éomer. There were Faramir, Aragorn, Imrahil, Erkenbrand, Elfhelm, Elladan, Elrohir, Legolas, Gimli, Merry, Pippin and even the Lord Celeborn who claimed a dance, and gladly I granted it.

When the dancing began, the formal seating arrangements were done with. Everyone sat where he or she liked, forming smaller or larger groups eating, drinking, talking or playing games together.

The various artists mingled with guests, presenting their tricks and talents as they moved about.

I spent some time with Éowyn, Míri and my other women friends.

Together with Éomer I sat down at the table where the Lady Galadriel and the Lord Celeborn were seated with their entourage, the sons of Elrond and Legolas and Gimli. The news from Lórien was good. Dol Guldur was completely destroyed and they were working together with the Silvan elves of Mirkwood to turn these vast woods into forests that deserved the name of Erin Lasgalen again.

When the music started again, this time for a round dance, the elves of Lórien joined in the dance.

* * *

Dancing, singing, talking, laughing, drinking, most of the time with Éomer at my side, the hours flew by. I never noticed when the sky darkened outside the stained glass windows of the golden hall of Meduseld. Nor did I hear the bells being struck for the hour of midnight.

But midnight was the time the newly wed couple traditionally departed from the feast to consummate the marriage. I might be too caught up in the fun of the feast to remember this detail, but our guests did.

Escorting the newly wed couple to the _brydlac_, the bridal bed, was the highlight of the feast.

Everyone accompanied the bride and the groom to the bed chamber, where they were bid good-night with much hilarity and levity.

Drums rolled.

Éowyn stepped into the centre of the hall.

Suddenly the hall was silent once again, with all eyes turned to the White Lady of Ithilien, standing there all flushed and pretty, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Now it is time to escort Éomer and Lothíriel to their chamber and see to it that the _brydlac_ is properly hallowed. Where are the seven witnesses called for by our laws of old?" She asked, mirth clearly audible in her voice.

I felt heat rise to my cheeks and my stomach cramped together with sudden nervousness. Éomer stepped closer to my side. His hand sought my hand and squeezed it. His eyes were bright; his face flushed with the exertion of the dancing, sweaty tendrils of golden and dun hair had escaped his braid.

"Here's one," Aragorn called out and came forward.

"And here's another," Erkenbrand cried, grinning broadly as he made his way to the centre of the hall.

"And here," added Faramir.

Finally the lords of the five provinces of Rohan, the king and the steward of Gondor were assembled at the centre of the hall, looking at Éomer and me expectantly.

"If I must, I must," Éomer said, bent back my head in a long, deep kiss that tasted of ale and smoke from a hobbit's pipe.

When he released me, I gasped, my mind reeling with a mixture of dread and desire. I had longed for this night. I had waited so long for this night. How would it be? _Extraordinary, of course,_ was the thought that flashed through my mind as the crowd started chanting a bawdy song to accompany our steps towards our sleeping chamber.

Éowyn led the way. Behind us followed the seven witnesses. After them came my women friends who would help me get ready for bed and behind them many of the other guests crowded into the hallway to the royal apartments. The elves were the only one who stayed behind. Apart from the twins, of course. Elladan and Elrohir had spent too much time with men, and especially the Rohirrim, to feel uncomfortable with such barbaric customs as this one.

* * *

The royal apartments face to the west, at the back of the golden hall. Their windows go out to the orchard behind the rose garden. A beautiful, peaceful view.

But as we walked down the hallway and down the corridor of the cloister, this was the least thing on my mind. I was all of a sudden wide awake and very nervous again.

The ceremony of the _brydlac_ was bad enough, but the thought that after such a long time of waiting, wondering, _hungering_ for Éomer it was finally time to act on what we felt for each other… it made me more nervous than I had been when I was a virgin and my first boyfriend had decided it was time to change that.

Éowyn thrust open the door of the royal bedchamber. I saw the bed and swallowed hard. It was a huge, massive, four poster, hung with heavy green fabrics, made up with white linen, eiderdown pillows and covers, white bees-way candles on the nightstands… doors on either side of the room led to the dressing room of the king and the queen. King to the right, queen to the left.

My heart thudded. My stomach dropped. I felt my palms go cold and clammy.

Éowyn turned around and grinned at us. "_Broðor min_, take your entourage in there and get ready!"

Éomer – suddenly pale – groping for a ribald comment finally only nodded meekly and allowed himself to be led off into his dressing room by the witnesses and some friends.

Míri, Sorcha and Elaine had already gone into my dressing room, puttering about, joking and laughing.

The rest of the spectators stayed at the door, fighting over the best position – the position that allowed them a glimpse of the bed.

I made no move to disappear into my dressing room. I stood rooted to the ground, like a deer in the headlights of a car, or as if I found myself face to face with thirty hungry orcs. Éowyn, her face alight with amusement, walked towards me and gripped me at the shoulders. "Don't you want to go to bed, Lothy?"

I felt my cheeks grow hot. Laughter, cheers, jeers and snorts commented on my reaction from the hall-way. But I did not, could not move. Finally Éowyn simply towed me into my dressing room.

She closed the door behind us and collapsed into laughter. Tears of mirth were running down her cheeks, "Your face, Lothy! You should see your face! OH, you are priceless!"

Míri rolled her eyes at the Lady of Ithilien. Then she embraced me warmly, patting my back. "Don't worry, Lothy. They will only tug you in! Then everyone will go back to the hall and you have all night for… er… well…" Now it was Míri's turn to blush.

"If I might suggest something? Perhaps we should get the Queen of Rohan ready for her wedding night?" That was Arwen, calm and sympathetic.

I exhaled deeply. Arwen had made it through about the same procedures. The queen of Gondor gave me a reassuring smile. "It will be over before you know it. And after all, _you _know what to expect afterwards."

I nodded. Yes. I knew. But… I had never made love with Éomer… and the last time… I swallowed hard and turned my thoughts away from that memory.

It was Sorcha who put a stop to the talking and the dithering by simply beginning to remove my gowns. She swiftly untied the laces at my back. Arwen shook out a beautiful white nightgown that was _dripping_ with finest lace. I would look like a fairy in that. Suddenly the gown came loose and dropped to the ground in a heap of green and gold fabrics. Ini had prepared a bowl and ewer with steaming hot water.

I had no choice. Like it or not, the next moment I stood naked in front of the queen of Gondor and my other friends and was quickly washed from head to toes.

Elaine offered one of her special body oils. I tried to protest, but before I could say more than, "I don't…" Éowyn was already slathering the oil all over me, reducing Arwen to undignified giggles.

Míri only remarked dryly, "I pity the poor children you are going to have, Éowyn… they won't stand a chance."

Then I found myself dressed in the beautiful nightgown. I was smelling heavenly and my heart was still beating like a drum.

"Wonderful!" Arwen looked me up and down and smiled. "You are so beautiful, Lothíriel!"

Éowyn narrowed her eyes and scrutinized my appearance. "You look almost like an elf, Lothy! You will turn my brother into a gibbering fool!" There was a note of satisfied amusement in her voice. Then she frowned. "We have to comb your hair! Look, Míri, there are still some tangles in there, at the back!"

Míri nodded. "Yes, it has grown beautifully. I love those waves." She reached for a brush and started on my hair, carefully separating strands and tangles. The sound and the feeling of having my hair brushed were soothing. My heartbeat slowed down, and I felt my cheeks grow a little cooler.

Arwen placed the bridal crown of flowers on my head again.

I was ready.

It was time to return to the bedchamber.

* * *

I entered the bedchamber – and my nervousness was back.

The seven witnesses were lined up in front of the door, handing a goblet of wine or ale back and forth between them. Erkenbrand and Elfhelm were sputtering with laughter at something Aragorn had just said. I frowned at them.

But then I saw Éomer. He stood on the other side of the bed, dressed in a light green nightshirt and a dark green dressing gown. He was flushed and his eyes were sparkling. When he beheld me, walking towards the bed in the white, floating nightgown, his eyes flared up with dark fire.I gasped. My heart skipped the proverbial beat (or two or three).

Slowly Éomer walked around the bed. His hair had been freed of the braid and combed out. It flowed in a great golden and dun mane down to his shoulders, emphasizing the dark fire of his eyes. His lips were moist and full, kissable close. He gave me a smile that said more than any words.

Then he reached for my bridal crown, the crown of the virgin bride and removed it from my head. He placed it carefully on the nightstand. This was the sign for the witnesses to gather around the bed.

Every man held a lit torch in his hand, bright light to chase away any evil spirits lingering around the bed. Aragorn reached for the bed and folded back the covers.

I sat down on the bed.

The mattress was filled with fresh straw and crackled lightly under my weight. There were herbs mixed in with the straw to keep away the bed bugs, giving off a pungent, spicy smell. My stomach did a somersault. Slowly, careful to keep down the nightgown I lifted my feet up on the bed and lay down.

Aragorn smiled down at me in a reassuring way. Faramir winked at me. I was glad that my friends were on my side of the bed.

Erkenbrand and Elfhelm escorted Éomer back to his side of the bed.

The mattress heaved and rustled. For a moment I felt as if I was lying on sloping ground. Then I felt the heat of Éomer's body so close to my body, and my heartbeat quickened once again. _Getting married is really something I can't recommend to the faint- or weak hearted._

"Time to tug you in," Faramir whispered. Aragorn's lips twitched. He was at least trying not to grin. Grimsir who was standing at the foot of the bed, scowled at the Prince of Ithilien. Eutharich snorted.

Then it was indeed time to tug us in.

Aragorn reached for the cover on my side of the bed. Elfhelm did the same on Éomer's side.

Together the seven men said, "We are gathered here tonight to bear witness on the _brydlac _of Éomer, son of Éomund, and Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil. Bound by steel, by oaths and rings, they are now bound in body, too, and we judge their marriage fulfilled and consummated. So do we swear, aver and affirm!"

And even as they spoke, Aragorn and Elfhelm placed the covers over Éomer and me.

Cheers and applause went up outside the door, and I was happy that my Rohirric was not yet up to some of the jokes I heard being shouted.

Then the candles on our nightstands were extinguished and the seven witnesses left the room. We lay in the darkness and listened to the crowd of witnesses, family, friends and guests moving away.

Finally the noise of laughter and joking voices died away.

We were alone in the silent darkness.

There was only the sound of Éomer's breathing, a faint rustling sound of the straw in the mattress taking the weight of our bodies. My heartbeat echoed in my ears.

I gave a shivery sigh that was echoed by a weak chuckle from Éomer's side of the bed. "Finally," he breathed. "We made it. Sometimes I was not sure at all that I'd last the distance." Éomer's voice was slightly slurred with drinking and fatigue. His breath tickled my hair against my ear. "But we made it. And now… you are mine!"

I felt excitement wash through my body. "Yes, now I'm yours… or almost yours!"

A deep throated laugh rumbled through Éomer's body. "I'll show you just how much you are mine! Just you wait!"

Then he suddenly yawned. The yawn was followed by a burp that was as deep throated as the laugh that had sent shivers down my spine a moment ago.

Éomer turned around and snuggled up against me.

My breath caught in my throat as I felt the length of his muscular body pressed against me. Slowly he reached out for me with his left arm.

Slowly, enticingly his hand began a stroking journey down my body.

After a while, his hand rested on my lower stomach, a warm, heavy weight that made me feel liquid and floating, barely tied to the earth, ready to fly away on the wings of desire…

Suddenly Éomer's head was an even warmer, heavier weight on my shoulder.

A strange, purring sound filled the silence of the room.

It took me a moment to realize what that sound was.

The sound was Éomer.

My husband had fallen asleep during our wedding night and was now snoring, comfortably curled up against me.

* * *

**A/N: **The words for the offering of the bridal ale are an adaptation of a verse from the _Sygdrifumal_, the Poetic Edda. The description of the feast is based on the menu served at the marriage of Marquis Gian Giacomo Trivulzio with Beatrice d'Avalos d'Aragona 1488 in Milan.


	88. Brydniht

**A/N:** Here is the chapter everyone has waited for with more or less baited breath. I hope there were no casualties! And I hope this was worth waiting for!

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But before you get right into the smut, I have NEWS:

A friend (Aranel Took) and I have founded yet another LOTR-Live Journal Community .

It's called "There and Back Again". You can findthe link to iton my profile page.

"There and Back Again" is meant to be a starting place for new and young writers (teenagers welcome!) and as a workshop for experienced writers (here you can post even fragments and get feedback!). We are planning on a writing exercise/experiment each month and some very basic resources. I would happy to see you there!

Cheers!

Juno

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And now: enjoy!

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**88. Brydniht**

I lay in the darkness of our bedchamber and listened to the rhythmic humming sound of Éomer's snoring as it filled the room for a long moment. I did not know how to react, or what to feel; I was torn between anger, frustration and amusement. But before I reached a decision what to do about my new husband, peacefully asleep on his wedding night, the fatigue of excitement and a long day caught up with me. I did not even notice when I fell asleep, too.

* * *

When I opened my eyes again, the room was filled with the indigo shadows of the small hours of the night. In the fire place the ambers glowed with an almost smothered fire. Dazed, lost in that soft realm between dreaming and waking, I blindly reached out – confused at the unfamiliar surroundings. My hand was caught in a firm grip. A gentle, dark voice whispered into my ear, sending shivers down my spine, "I fell asleep. Can you forgive me?"

"Hmmmm?" Somehow it was difficult for me to make sense of my surroundings. The scent of herbs and a hint of perfume floated around me, along with the smell of warm, male skin.

Suddenly I felt the touch of strong hands on my breasts. My breath caught in my throat…

* * *

…with a slow, inescapable pressure Éomer cups my breasts and holds them tightly for a moment. My heart starts to race and I feel my nipples harden against the rough, callused skin of his fingers. In unhurried, circular movements Éomer pushes my breasts upwards. Just a little, a firm, deliberate massage that makes me aware of my breasts the way I have never been aware of them before. As I gasp at the sensation flooding through my body, I find my mouth closed by Éomer's kiss. This is not the swift meeting of silky skin, nor the quick, desperate meeting of desire that I know from the days of our betrothal. This is a slow; deep drinking of my frantic heartbeat and the sweet, sweet longing I am feeling for him.

When his lips leave mine, I am dizzy and my limbs are heavy with the languid feeling of love.

Somehow my nightshirt has gotten tangled around my waist. Éomer's hands reach for my hips, for my waist. He places his hands at my waist and holds me tightly. His skin is slightly rough, and hot, so hot, as if he's on fire. I feel his strength, the strength of a warrior, born and bred. Even if I wanted to, I could not struggle against his grip. Suddenly he releases me. But before I can even utter a moan of complaint, he has taken hold of my nightshirt and draws it upwards, over my nipples – which makes me gasp, so aroused am I already – and over my head. With a soft swishing noise the white lace and linen meet the dark wooden boards of the floor. I am naked between white linen and the golden fur of a steppe-lion of Rohan. For Éomer is naked, too. He kneels above me, in a splendour of rippling muscles, pale scars and a slight fur of dun and golden body hair. His hair, still tousled from sleep, flows in a mane down to his shoulders, gleaming dully in the shadows of the night. A dark fire burns in his eyes. Flames that leap up to engulf me.

But inexorably my gaze is drawn downwards. Dark eyes, mouth, that sweet spot between his wide collarbones. Not enough. Downwards my eyes slide. Tight, coffee-brown, kissable nipples and a muscular stomach with that deliciously long and narrow indentation of the navel. Still not enough. My eyes feel hot in my skull; my breath comes in snatches, as I finally look at him. Straight he is, as his master, broad he is, and tall, tawny, as he rises from his field of amber curls.

Only when a finger lifts my chin in a gentle caress can I tear my gaze from _him_ – and find myself helpless in the fire of Éomer's love. Dark eyes, ever so deep with love for me! They reach for my soul, even as his lips claim mine. Slow is his desire, self-assured. King is he and master of his fate, and master of my body he will be, as I arch myself against him, helplessly moaning.

Stretched out beside me, he is determined to take his time. I try to feebly reach for him, but there is a weakness in my limbs, a weakness of abandoning my soul, mind and body to desire that I have never experienced before. It is child's play for him, to hold me down and claim me as he will.

With the fingers of his left hand he strokes along the lines of my body, running the tips of his rough yet tender fingers in low fluttery movements from the lines of my jaw, down my throat, along my collar bones… as I moan in a deep, hoarse voice that is closer to his, than to my normal, higher register, he pauses. He places his lips against my collar bone. Soft they are, his lips, hot silk, and firm, as everything about him seems to be strong, and firm. Silk and fire on my skin, lightly, oh, ever so lightly his teeth graze the delicate bones. He traces the scar tissue across my collar bone and breast with his tongue and his tongue is soft, so soft, but hot, too. Liquid fire tracing that small area of skin that has lost its feeling to the blades of the orcs.

He has not touched my secret places yet, and I am almost undone.

But for once I am helpless in the arms of a man, _my_ man. All control, all action on my part is suspended. I am floating, swaying, a boat set adrift on the ocean of desire; steered only by his hands, his mouth, his body and the hot length of his male strength.

With both hands he strokes downwards from my breasts, fluttering his fingertips against the faint outlines of my ribs. I am still too thin. My helpless squirming against his fingers makes him smile gently. That smile brings tears to my eyes. But before my mind can form any words, before my hands can reach for his, he bends and places a long kiss on my stomach, plays around my navel, and his tongue fills my body with that liquid fire that is our mutual desire, spreading from my navel, spreading, engulfing me…

…a tender smile tugs at his mouth swollen lips so close to mine dark eyes dark eyes and fingers rough tender gentle touches, touches on dark curls on dark curls downwards down and there, there just a finger tip but there can't stay still squirming wiggling trying, trying I don't know what but his weight the heavy hot weight of his body holds me he holds me, then he slips his finger down, down and in and back and out and in and over and out and down and across, stills my moans and screams with sweet lips suddenly floating in darkness all boundaries shed from afar moans of desire and muffled screams as his fire pierces me all screams are lost in a joined rhythm blood, body, soul a dance we are dancing on a volcano I see the fire coming I explosion I am in the heart of the fire but not alone.

Not alone.

In the heart of the fire he is there, he is there with me. And then we are gone.

* * *

A soft, warm darkness spreads her wings across bodies shivering against each other in the after throes of fulfilment.

* * *

When I woke, the soft light of the western horizon at mid-morning filled the room with gentle shades of yellow and white. I woke slowly, my thoughts and my body parts felt scattered and confused. For a time I lay very still, trying to make sense of me, inside and out. Scenes of the day before were dancing through my mind. Éomer as he lifted his new sword… Éomer as he lifted the bridal ale to me… Éomer, as he drew me against his chest in a dance… Éomer, as he fell asleep, curled up against my side… _Éomer, as he…_

Suddenly my eyes opened wide and in a hot shiver racing down my body from head to toes, I was wide awake. The firm weight of a warm hand placed on the lower part of my stomach made me realize that the memory of Éomer falling asleep had not been a dream. But… heat suffused me. The hand on my belly did not move. Next to me the rhythm of breathing seemed to hold the hint of a chuckle. There was a languid heaviness to my body. There was a hot slickness between my legs and a certain raw openness. _Then this had not been a dream, either!_

I sat up in bed, startling the hand. I drew my blankets over my naked body. Éomer, who had been lying on his stomach, his left hand firmly placed on my stomach, rolled around on his side and grinned up at me impishly.

He seemed smaller than in those dark, desire filled hours of the night. His cheeks were rosy, his mane of dun and golden dishevelled, his head pressed deeply into the white linen of the pillow. His expression was that of utter, male satisfaction. "I made it up to you, didn't I?" he said, a slow grin spreading across his face. Involuntarily my right hand reached down between my legs. Slick, wet, aching slightly.

"Yes," I said. "You did."

"Then come to me, my love, my Lothíriel," he said softly, as if my name was a spell, a magic spell. He drew me down against him, his warrior-strength softened by the dawn. He spooned me with his body, holding me close against him. I felt him against my rear, slick, hot, straight, but he only held me. Happy. Content. I closed my eyes and dozed off again.

* * *

When we finally made it out of our bed, noon was long gone.

I was glad that there were only Ini and Sorcha to help me bath and dress. I don't think I could have handled Éowyn's jokes or the Lady Elaine's dark, silent looks.

As it was Sorcha only favoured me with a very broad smile and handed me a small white pot with a lotion that smelled faintly of _athelas_. "That might be helpful," she said and turned away so that I could blush in peace.

But I **did** use the salve. It helped, too. Probably Elaine's.

My hair was braided and covered with a sheer green veil to show my new status as a married woman. My dress was a typical Rohirric dress, cream coloured underdress and a dark forest green overdress, long slit sleeves that showed the cream coloured fabric and the white lace of my shirt. Today I would have to wear that veil, but only today. The veil was more symbol than requirement, so in the future I would not have to wear it every day, but only at certain feast days or occasions of state. But the days when I could leave my hair open and free, flowing in the wind, were over as of today.

I was now a married woman.

* * *

Although it was not really morning any more, the first meal of the day was served as a breakfast out on the terrace in front of the Hall of Meduseld.

It was another beautiful day. The translucent, transient beauty of a golden autumn day that makes you hold your breath, because this autumn beauty is fragile – darkness, rain and winter are only a breath away.

Éomer was already seated when I arrived on the terrace. He was dressed in a loose white shirt with exquisite white on white embroidery at the throat and at the wide sleeves, and soft, tawny leather trousers, buck-skin, probably. High dark boots, soft from wear. His colours, gold and dun and tawny, and dark. Like Rohan and its plains in the perfect golden days of Yavannië and early Narquelië, the wind flowing through the dried grasses and above the plains the dark shadows of the Ered Nimrais to the east and the Misty Mountains to the west.

A man and his country. _My man and my country._

As if he had heard my thoughts, Éomer turned around. His eyes lit up as he saw me and he rose from his seat. "Lothíriel, my lovely!"

Behind Éomer, Aragorn, Celeborn, Faramir and the high lords of Rohan rose from their seats and bowed to me. Yesterday I had merited a certain respect as Éomer's bride. Today I was his wife and their queen. They bowed very deeply.

I expected Éomer to embrace me, kiss me perhaps even.

But he turned around before he touched me. I halted, confused. Éomer beckoned to someone who had been waiting in the warm shadows of the roof of the hall of Meduseld. Frohwein, his squire, Númendil, dressed as his page and Mistress Gosvintha, the chief of the royal household approached at his gesture. Frohwein held a bundle of parchments in his arms. Gosvintha carried a huge bunch of keys on a cushion made of green velvet. Little Númendil bore a wooden box that was intricately carved with the figures of horses and riders, their banners flying in the wind.

I closed my eyes for a moment and almost groaned. I had completely forgotten about the last ceremony of a wedding in Middle-earth. The _morgengifu_, the morning-gift!

I wondered what it would be that Éomer wanted to give to me.

The morning-gift was the recompense for giving up my "virginity" and for the risk I was taking in agreeing to bear Éomer's children. _Bearing Éomer's children._ The thought made my heart beat faster.

"As a _morgengifu_ for the joys of your love and the hope of our children I gift you with the estate of Snowbourne Valley. All the tithes and proceeds of that estate will from now on come to you. Sir Eskil of Snowbourne will answer your orders in all decisions pertaining the estate. May you have the joy in that valley that I always found there," Éomer told me.

Frohwein stepped in front of me and handed me the parchments he held. The bundle was quite voluminous and heavy. The parchment was adorned with a number of green seals that showed the royal stamp of horse-head and runes of the Cirth.

A shiver ran down my spine. Now I was the owner of a village, fields, meadows, horses, bond-servants… and more than that. From now on I would be responsible for every decision that Sir Eskil could not make on his own. The life and death of the inhabitants of that village rested in my hands. It was a heavy weight.

I was glad to hand the parchment over to Frohwein again.

I would have to study the contracts assiduously as soon as I had the time. And I knew that I wanted to go there and talk to the people there myself as soon as I could. But I felt my heart melt for Éomer even as Frohwein walked back to stand behind his king. I remembered the romantic afternoon I had shared with Éomer on the banks of Snowbourne River very well. He could have given me any estate of the crown-lands of the kings of Rohan. But he had given me this. Something that held a very special meaning to both of us.

"The household of Meduseld and the keys of the gates of Edoras I give in your keeping, my queen and my lady," Éomer said. And softly, very softly, he added, "Queen of my heart."

At that Gosvintha approached me and gave me one of her small, serious smiles. "My lady," she said, and curtsied deeply, all the while extending the cushion to me. I knew what I had to do. I felt even more awkward about it than I had felt about the parchment. But I picked up the key and held them out high, for all to see. I knew it was only symbolic, but I felt strange about it nevertheless. Cheers rang out and I heard people clap their hands enthusiastically.

I started and almost let keys drop to the floor. Almost. With shaking hands I put them back on the cushion and Gosvintha walked back to stand next to Frohwein.

I looked around to see where the cheers and the applause had come from.

I felt my heart jump into my mouth. At the foot of the stairs in front of the terrace a crowd of onlookers had gathered to witness the _morgengifu_ and to catch a glimpse of their new queen.

_Me._ My stomach did an appropriate flip.

But Éomer's voice claimed my attention and I forgot all about the spectators. "And here…," his voice was husky. "And here is what I inherited of my mother's jewellery. May it bring you joy when you grace the golden hall with your loveliness!"

Númendil walked up to me and offered me the wooden box. I had to bend down to pick up the box, but as I did so I realized that the boy had grown. The childish cast of his features was already giving way to the awkward angles of youth. He smiled at me, a sweet smile that reminded me of his mother. I pressed my lips together as I accepted the box. The wood was warm and smooth as silk. Close up I could see that some of the figures were almost smoothed back into the wood with the wear of many years. For a moment I could imagine how the bright golden head of a little girl touched the darker dun golden mane of a small boy, as they stroked the wood of this treasure box, searching for miracles and comfort.

"Thank you," I whispered. Then I straightened up. I held the box tight against my chest. I felt my heart beat heavily against the smooth wood. I looked at Éomer. His dark, deep gaze was almost a tangible caress on my skin. "Thank you," I repeated. "Thank you very much."

Then I had to give the little wooden box back to Númendil and sit back down with our friends and guests for my first breakfast as a married woman.

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**A/N: **Thank you for your many, wonderful reviews. You really keep me going! Hugs!


	89. Bliss and Plight

**89. Bliss and Plight**

Mistress Gosvintha was impressive in her wrath. She stood straight-backed, tight-lipped, her dark eyes were blazing. Her grey gown and pale grey apron were immaculate and looked like a uniform. She was the general of the household and even the guards were trying to fade back into the shadows between the columns of the Golden Hall.

Lady Elaine of Tarnost, however, was not impressed. She was taller than Mistress Gosvintha, and thinner, a woman in her best years. Her jaws were set. Her grey eyes had acquired sapphire sparkles – the sure fire sign of temper building up for an eruption that would make the Orodruin proud.

I suppressed the urge to turn around and try to catch sight of my sister-in-law: searching for a haughtily raised eyebrow or a slight smirk curling her wide lips to tell me what to do in yet another situation I felt at a loss with.

But Éowyn was gone. She had returned with Faramir to the green hills of Ithilien, leaving me to my king and my country.

I turned my attention back to the problem at hand.

"He should have his hand seen to. And _I_ am supposed to be the healer here now." The Lady of Tarnost was saying, her voice icy and clear.

"If he does not want to have his hand looked at, that's his business," Mistress Gosvintha retorted.

Lady Elaine was indeed supposed to be the resident healer now. And she had started out with summoning the entire household to her office to get to know their state of health. This summons had not sat well with more than one, especially with Mistress Gosvintha. But Mistress Gosvintha had come to the office of the Lady and told her exactly what she thought of this summons – as the one who had been responsible for the health of Meduseld's residents before the arrival of the new queen and her entourage. I don't _think_ she said something quite as rude as "_shove that summons…_". But it was enough.

At first the ensuing rivalry between the lady and the mistress had comforted me in a strange way. It reassured me that the Lady Elaine was only human, too, and that perhaps there were no dark plots on her mind after all.

Also, _I_ did get along with Mistress Gosvintha with no problems. Míri had taught me well. I knew enough of the affairs of a household of the size of Meduseld to be able to answer Mistress Gosvintha's questions to her satisfaction. I think the formidable Rohirric major domo also liked the fact that I did not pretend to know everything. I had made it a rule to ask her advice right away when I was stuck with something. So, for the time being, I was in Mistress Gosvintha's good graces. And happy to be there, too.

"It is _my_ duty to look after the health and well-being of every member of the household," Elaine replied.

"But it is not in _your_ power to order everyone of this household around whenever you please, my lady," was Gosvintha's scathing reply.

"But it is…"

"My hand does not need any treatment, my lady. But thank you for your concern," the harper's voice was gravelly and held an undertone of – if I hadn't known better, I would have said – darkness, dread, a threat?

It was sufficient, however, to make both women back away.

But before I could heave a sigh of relief, Elaine's gaze was caught by yet another object of annoyance. The boy.

"I think I have not yet had a look at that boy, yet, either," she said. "Perhaps I could do so now?"

She turned back to the harper who had resumed his conversation with Éomer. I opened my mouth to stop her, but before I got around to saying something, she had already interrupted the discussion of the king and his minstrel once more.

"What is the boy's name did you say? And where did you get him?"

The bard turned around. His eyes were colder than ice, but at the same time a deadly fire seemed to blaze in their depths. The boy, realizing that we were talking about him, shrank back against the column where he was waiting with his master's harp and staff. The harper ignored the boy, as he replied, "He came with me down from the mountains in the Westfold. I don't think he knows his name."

"You don't know his name?" Elaine stared at the old man incredulously. I admit that in that instance I was confounded, too. I don't think that I simply stood there, gaping. Oh, hell. I probably did stand there… gaping.

"But how could you simply take him away from his home, if you don't even know his name?"

Good question. But you did not ask that old man questions. It was something everyone seemed to realize. Everyone, except Elaine. No questions, and steer clear of him. _Leave him and his secrets the f… alone._ What _was_ the matter with Elaine these days?

The harper's voice was rough and forbidding as he answered. "He did not belong there. He will be a singer. His name will be his own."

Elaine opened her mouth to reply, I opened my mouth to silence her, and Éomer finally spoke up with ill-concealed irritation in his voice.

"Lothíriel, could you take this matter out of this hall? There are other things I have to deal with right now!"

"Yes, of course," I answered, my voice wavering. "Elaine, Gosvintha, let's go to my study, please. You –" I turned to the boy. "Would you please come with us? Don't be afraid. We won't hurt you!" I tried to smile at the child. It was probably more a grimace than a smile. But the boy walked towards me.

I curtsied quickly to Éomer and the minstrel. "My lords."

A curt nod and we were allowed to go.

* * *

As I left the hall in front of the others I felt tears of embarrassment and anger burning in my eyes. Éomer had changed in the year of our betrothal. He was _king_ now. First and foremost he was king. The politics and decisions that kept the realm in order and our people safe took precedence to everything else. He also had a natural talent to use the symbols of power that are ingrained in the daily dealings of a royal court to his advantage. A cat-fight between the first lady-in-waiting of the queen and the major-domo of the royal household along with an argument with a mysterious minstrel were obviously not going to work for him there. Such silliness simply could not be allowed to interfere with matters of real importance. Therefore I had better go and deal with it. Quickly.

I _did_ understand that. What I hated was that there was never any privacy to anything that went wrong. And something went wrong every day. And although Éomer never really looked at me, when something like this had to be resolved and he had a cool-friendly manner of asking me as the queen to handle this or that, to me it felt like a public humiliation. I knew _it wasn't_. Not really. But it felt that way.

And now I had had enough.

When we reached my study, I turned to Elaine and Gosvintha. I glared at them as imperiously as I could. My voice was cold. When I get really angry, my voice always gets cold.

"My ladies, whatever there is between you, it stops _now_. Now! Lady Elaine is an excellent healer, Mistress Gosvintha, and we can count ourselves lucky that we have her here in Edoras. I expect you to assist her in the matters of her craft. – Lady Elaine, Mistress Gosvintha has been the head of the inner workings of this household for almost thirty years. She _is_ major domo of Meduseld and I hope she will remain that for many years yet. I expect you to listen to her advice on matters concerning the household and its members. That's all I have to say about this. And I don't want to hear another word about this matter."

I turned away from them and knelt down in front of the boy who stood trembling next to my desk. He was probably five years old, certainly not older than seven, and from the cast of his features I rather thought that he was only intimidated by the still new surroundings and not really timid by nature. Trying to pronounce the Rohirric words as clearly as possible, I turned to the child.

"Hello, little singer. Now, don't be afraid. Nothing will happen to you. Do you have a name?"

He nodded. But he did not answer.

I felt a smile tickle the corners of my mouth. "Would you tell me your name?"

"Mæte," he whispered.

"But that's –" I silenced Elaine with a frown.

"Do you remember any other name?" I asked the boy. "Because you will quickly outgrow 'Mæte'." '_Mæte_' means 'small' in Rohirric. It's what a father or a mother will call their youngest before they reach their seventh year and become apprenticed in a craft, or are expected to work in the household.

The boy shook his head. I pressed my lips together and tried to think. He _would_ need a real name if he was to stay with us. But was it my place to give it to him? The old minstrel did not seem to care if the boy had a name or not. However, this was not a puppy to call Gizmo or Freki as the mood struck me. This was a human being. I felt the expectant looks of Gosvintha and Elaine on my back. I was the queen. Now that I had taken him here, the boy was my responsibility. A name. A name for a singer… Probably not 'Frank Sinatra' or 'Freddy Mercury'…

Suddenly a thought struck me.

How about the poet who had first written down the tale of King Arthur in Wales in the fourteenth century? _That_ would be a fitting name of a singer at a royal court!

"Would you like to have a real name? Like a man?" I asked and looked at the pale face in front of me. Dark eyes were huge in the small face; dark-golden hair framed high cheekbones and a snub-nose. The boy stared at me for a moment, obviously thinking hard.

Then he sniffed noisily and nodded. "Yes, your majesty."

Now it was my turn to stare at the boy. My heart gave an almost painful beat. _Your majesty…_

Then I cleared my throat and smiled at the boy. "Would you like to be called '_Taliesin_'? That is a singer's name. The name of a poet and singer of a famous king of old."

The boy's eyes grew even larger in his too thin face. At last he nodded. A small smile spread across his face until it reached his eyes and made them glow with pride.

I rose to my feet and turned around to find both women staring at me. There was a frown on Gosvintha's face and a strange dark light shone in Elaine's eyes. I felt my hands go cold and clammy. _They would never have heard of a famous bard and poet called Taliesin!_

Oh rats!

I went on quickly, acting as if I had not noticed anything,

"That will be all for now. Elaine, please have a look at the boy. He seems very thin. If everything is alright with him, send him to the kitchen. At the very least he needs some feeding up. – Is there anything else we need to discuss, Mistress Gosvintha?" I smiled at her as unconcernedly as I could.

"No, that will be all, your majesty," Gosvintha curtsied and left, giving Elaine a polite nod.

Elaine smiled at the boy and held her hand out to him. "Come with me, Taliesin. I promise it won't hurt and then you will get some sweet-meats in the kitchen! How does that sound?"

The smile stayed on the boy's face and he allowed himself to be led from the room.

When she was at the door, Elaine turned and like Gosvintha gave me a courteous nod – accompanied with yet another of her dark, veiled glances. "My lady Lothíriel."

When the door closed behind them I slumped down on the chair behind my desk. I cupped my forehead in my palms and gave a small groan. My hands were icy, my face was hot.

I had the feeling that the matter between Elaine and Gosvintha was resolved by queenly authority and I was grateful that this – my – authority had held up. If my authority failed so early in the game… I shuddered to even think about it.

But the incident with the name made me think about my first lady-in-waiting again. What was it that had made Elaine ask to come with me to Edoras in the first place? And what made her give me those dark looks? And what the _bloody f…_ hell had made me pick a name of my place of birth for the boy? What would it mean if it was publicly known that I was only the adopted daughter of Prince Imrahil?

It was not that it was a secret that I was only Imrahil's daughter by adoption and that I really came from a far-away country. It was more like that it wasn't mentioned in public. Now that I was living here, my Rohirric was improving quickly, and as a lady from Gondor people expected me not to speak Rohirric perfectly and behave strangely at times.

So, what would it mean, if anyone knew?

Would it mean anything at all?

Finally I forced worries and dark thoughts away and turned my attention to the ledgers of the royal household that I tried to familiarize myself with.

* * *

It was late in the afternoon, when a knock on the door of my study disturbed my concentration. I looked up to see Éomer enter the room. As always a look from his deep, dark eyes was enough to make my stomach flutter. I felt heat rise to my cheeks and the way his smile broadened told me in no uncertain terms that the heat was visible in a slight flush of colour.

"My lady," he said. There was a twinkle in his eyes. Much as pronouncing our real names had been a flirtatious game between us when we first met, now the honorific had become a hushed caress between us – suitable even in public, which other terms and endearments whispered in the darkness of our chamber were not.

"My lord," I replied and rose from my chair.

He swiftly crossed the room and gathered me in a tight embrace. I knew better by now than to mention the situation of the morning. For Éomer the situation had been over as soon as I had left the room. If I brought it up again, it would only annoy him. As it would also spoil my mood of quivering desire, I kept silent on what excuses I would have liked to make.

"Do you have time this afternoon? The weather is still fair, and for today no further affairs of the state or the hall should bother me," Éomer told me.

I looked at the small round windows framed in lead. Their glass was thick and tinged in yellow in this room. So, although there was sunlight in the room, it was filtered into muted gold that did not give a clue to the real weather outside.

"I do. I am almost finished with that ledger," I said, frowning at the leather-bound tome and the wax-tablet with my notes on the desk. The Cirth covering the tablet still had the awkward look of someone new to the script, but it was coming along. And I was careful not to use the writing I was used to in a more or less public place. I almost rued my journals – written in German and in joined-up writing, but those were kept in our bed-room, where no one would ever see them…

"Then let us go for a ride, meine Liebe! The plains are golden with Narquelië and the swans are flying south from the Anduin. I need some free air around me today. And you look as if you need the same!" A caressing palm travelled down my back. I was dressed in a long overtunic and Rohirric trousers. It looked almost like a dress, but the tunic sported slits at the sides embroidered in gold – pretty and practical at the same time.

My heart thumped heavily at the touch. _Free air and sunshine!_

Yes, after the morning with Gosvintha and Elaine and hours of poring over crabbed writing in those bloody ledgers…

_Free air and sunshine, and perhaps - _

"Yes," I sighed. "I most certainly do."

"Then let's go!"

* * *

Of course we did not go alone. But we did take only the barest minimum of guards. Rhawion and Helmichis, Frohwein and Éothain. Númendil was a little sullen at being left behind, but I knew what Éomer probably had in mind for our outing and a young page was _not_ the company we needed for that. Nor were four guards, of course.

But there is no real privacy when you are king and queen – nor in a Rohirric household. There are too many people around and the walls are too thin. Even in the warm darkness of our bedchamber we were not really alone, because there were always two guards at the door.

At the royal stables Mimi and Hiswa greeted us eagerly. Not more than fifteen minutes later we were on our way. As we passed the gate, my spirits lifted at once.

_Free air and sunshine!_

Éomer had been _so_ right!

Although it was already the end of October, the weather was still fairly warm and golden.

Soon we were galloping towards the plains of the Eastfold. The sunshine warmed our backs and glinted on the coat of our horses. The snowy peaks of the Irensaga glittered against a deep blue sky. Our guards kept as far back as security allowed.

We were as alone as we could be.

I felt the powerful play of Mithril's muscles between my legs and a few paces in front of me Éomer was in perfect harmony with the movements of his Hiswa. Éomer's golden and dun hair had escaped the braid and was flowing like a banner in the wind, the tight red leather tunic showed a hint of the muscles I loved to trace on his back and shoulders. Watching my husband riding before me like that made me almost giddy with desire.

After we allowed our horses to run as they wanted to for about two hours, we left the shadows of the mountains and slowed the Mearas down to a walk along the southern banks of the Snowbourne River. The Snowbourne River is the border between West Emnet and the Eastfold. The Eastfold is really the extension of Anórien into Rohan. It is a relatively thin stretch of land between the river Entwash to the north-east and the Ered Nimrais to the south-west. Some fifty miles wide and not even 150 miles long it is the smallest of the Rohirric provinces. It is green foot-hills of harsh mountains sloping down to sun-kissed fields. The farmlands of Rohan are mainly in the Eastfold. Although the Westfold has enough water for farming, too, from the rivers Adorn and Isen, it is exposed to the winds from the West and the more delicate grains, or corn, won't grow there. The Eastfold is sheltered from the winds to the west and the south by the Ered Nimrais. A small province, but rich. Safe, too. Far away from the Misty Mountains and their orcs, far away from wild and lonely plains of Dunland – close to friends and mountain-keeps. It is the sweetest, most idyllic province of the Mark. And yet it is a wider country than any I ever saw back on earth.

"How about we rest here for a while?" Éomer turned in the saddle. There was a gleam in his dark eyes. I was grateful that my cheeks were already flushed from the ride.

Our guards drew up beside us. Frohwein looked around. As far as I could see we were the only people around for miles. We were on a trail between a large field of golden barley and the softly sloping banks of the Snowbourne, grass and thickets golden with autumn and the slender willow trees spilling their yellow leaves into the white rushing water of the river.

The squire nodded. "I think there will be some opportunity to hunt over there."

He made an uncertain movement towards the north-east, where the outskirts of Snowbourne Forest blazed with the dark green of firs, the yellow of birches and the red of maple trees.

At least he kept a straight face.

Soon Éomer and I were alone. Éomer slid down from Hiswa and took hold of Mimi's reins. Mimi had the unfortunate tendency not to stay put when I dismounted and when I wore a real dress this could lead to disaster. With the tunic I wore today it was no problem, but I enjoyed to be caught in Éomer's strong arms nevertheless.

For a moment he held me tight, between his chest and the warm strength of Mithril at my back. I was enveloped in warmth and strength, and the comfortable, musty smell of horse and leather. One of my preferred perfumes of late!

Suddenly I grew aware of _him_ pressed against my lower stomach. I felt things low in my body tighten and a gasp rise from my throat.

"Didn't you want to get some rest?" I asked lightly, but there was a hoarseness to my voice that ruined the joke.

"I do and I will," Éomer replied. "But first things first!"

He quickly unsaddled the horses and spread the saddle blankets on the ground for us to lie on. The horses, left to their own devices, would wander off a few feet and graze, but stay within calling distance – as would the guards.

Now we were really alone.

For a moment I stood and looked down at the rushing white water of the Snowbourne River, remembering another afternoon at the riverside; though that had been on the other side of this river, with the wide plains of the Emnet opening before us. I inhaled deeply. I had come a long way. _A long way to happiness…_

The air was still warm, dusty with the last ripe grain that would be brought in before November came with cold and rain and perhaps the first snows.

"So thoughtful and quiet, my love?" Éomer stepped behind me and gathered me against him.

This time, with him at my back, the gasp came even more quickly and turned into a moan. When he did not fall asleep on me, Éomer was a wonderful lover – and the long time waiting for him seemed to have made my body so hungry for his touch that sometimes a look was enough to bring on an almost painful wave of desire.

His hands slid down my sides and to my hips, around to the front of my body and up to my breasts.

"Hmm?" I asked and could not remember what he had asked me at all.

With an elegant shrug Éomer divested himself of his red leather tunic and trousers, reclining on the blankets comfortable in all his naked glory. The skin of his chest was lightly tanned and covered in tawny curls. With my heart racing and my fingers trembling in anticipation I got rid of my overdress and my smock. For a moment I stood naked between the field and the river, and the sight of Éomer at my feet and the feeling a soft, cool October breeze on my skin raised goose-bumps all over my body, and my nipples as well.

Éomer's lips parted in a small, contented sigh. "Come here, my lovely! My lovely, lovely Lothíriel!"

And then I forgot everything about the field and the river and the wind – and the guards within hearing distance, too. I only knew hot skin, satin kisses and a deep, deep desire soon filled to the brim and then overflowing into the dizzy delight of shared orgasm.

* * *

But in the evening of that day a messenger from Minas Tirith reached Edoras. And the news he brought was not good.

* * *

**A/N: **I am back!

I hope you like the chapter. Please tell me what you think: was it ok to jump in time a little and get right into every day life at Edoras?

Any ideas what will happen next?


	90. A Messenger with Bad News

**A/N: **I post the betaed chapters of "Lothíriel" at the LJ Community "10thwalkerlothy" (user name) – with pictures and soundtrack suggestions!

If you have any suggestions for some Lothy-like LJ interests, please feel free to comment!

("Shagging Éomer" is already up (g) )

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ooo

The LOTR writers' workshop I moderate with Aranel Took has the second exercise up and running! Check it out: LJ user name "there(underscore)n(underscore)back"! More info can also be found at my FanFictionNet-profile.

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**90. A Messenger with Bad News**

The messenger from Minas Tirith arrived as we were having dinner in the Hall of Meduseld.

Éomer insisted that the royal household and the most important dignitaries present at court should join in the evening for a formal dinner five days a week. It was a means to keep the household together, to keep the dignitaries (our own or any visitors) on their toes and a symbol of vitality to the court.

I was only slowly realizing just how much the self-esteem of the proud Rohirrim had suffered under the traitorous influences of Gríma Wormtongue. I could only guess at how much of the grim bitterness I sometimes felt in Éomer were due to his experiences at court in the time of Gríma's subtle treachery.

Éomer did not enjoy those stately dinners.

He preferred to eat alone with me, or with some friends, especially those men who had ridden with him when he had been only the Third Marshal of the Mark. But he was very serious about his duties as a king and commander, and so it was barely once a week that we took our dinner alone in our private rooms. The other evening with no dinner in the great hall Éomer usually spent with the troops, having a dinner of stew in the barracks, talking to his marshals, his captains and the simple soldiers and riders alike.

Éomer was not about to forget where he had come from. As the sister-son of the king he had been trained as rider of the éotheod like any other son of a lord of the Rohirrim, only gradually rising to the rank of Third Marshal in the Mark, the highest rank and the only title he would have held under normal circumstances…

I liked that about him, the way he lived for his people from the loweliest peasant to the high-ranking noble, although I sometimes regretted that our days of light-hearted existence in the sunshine of Cormallen had been so short.

* * *

ooo

That evening I actually felt comfortable at the long oak table in front of one of the great fireplaces in the Golden Hall.

It had been such a wonderful afternoon. The wide fields of the Eastfold in the sunshine and…

_…and…_

I lowered my head into my bowl of soup to hide the heat that rose to my cheeks with the memory of exactly what we had done in the October sunshine this afternoon, on the banks of Snowbourne River. I felt pleasantly tired and there was a slight, contented ache between my legs. The soup was a good hiding place for my flushed face. It was hot. And good. The soup was a thick cabbage and leek and potato soup, but there was bacon in it to make it fit for the king's table.

The conversation of Rohirric and Westron that flowed on around the long table washed over me like the soft waves of a lake lapping at the shore. I was at peace with the world and happy with my husband and my life.

Éomer was at the head of the table, I sat to his right. Elfhelm – the Second Marshal of the Mark – was at Éomer's left, opposite of me. Erkenbrand – the Third Marshal of the Mark – was away, patrolling the garrisons at the borders. There had been some unrest among the Dunlending tribes to the Northeast. He would not be back for another month at least.

Also present were of course the Lady Elaine, Sorcha, Gléowine – Théoden's old minstrel – deep in discussion with the harper – who had still not given his name, and probably never would – and several council members, as well as the mayor of Edoras and his lady.

I was relieved that none of the other high lords of the five provinces were present. They always accounted for the most unpleasant political bickering, even at table. Tonight, however, the talk flowed freely and later the Harper would give us a song, perhaps even with little Taliesin singing the descant in his angelic high boy-soprano.

All in all the evening promised to turn out quite enjoyable.

* * *

ooo

But suddenly the doors of the Golden Hall opened and Helmichis entered.

The king's and the queen's guard had been joined in one company while Éomer and I were both in Edoras. Tonight it was Helmichis' and Wídfara's turn to guard the doors of the hall. Helmichis crossed the floor in quick, urgent strides. There was a tension to his broad shoulders that made me frown.

What had happened?

Helmichis went straight to the king, only for a fraction of a second his glance seemed to linger on the turned face of Sorcha who was still smiling at a comment of the mayor's wife. _Oh?_

Helmichis bent down to Éomer and spoke to him in a low voice. He was speaking Rohirric, and very fast, too. I could barely understand a word.

I felt a lump in my throat as I realized once again just how much I still had to learn until I would really belong here. At the same time apprehension constricted my stomach into a tight ball.

Éomer nodded to Helmichis, "Take him to my study. That's too important. I will be there shortly."

Helmichis bowed and departed, without another glance at the rest of those present.

I felt the warmth drain from my face. My heart beat heavily in my chest. It was one of those moments, when you _know_ that something bad is going to happen, but you don't know yet what it will be, and the only thing you know is that you can't do anything to stop it…

Éomer rose from his chair. His face was grim. "My ladies, my lords. I am sorry to interrupt your dinner, but a messenger from Minas Tirith as just arrived. I am very sorry, but I have to ask you to excuse me for a moment."

I was halfway out of my chair, my mouth opened to ask if I could accompany him – but Éomer only gave a small shake of his head. "Stay, Lothíriel," he told me in a low voice. "We can't break up the dinner completely. We have a duty of courtesy towards our guests."

Éomer gave a small bow to the members of our household and our guest. Then he walked to the door of the hall, where Wídfara was waiting for him, a tall shadow with mail glinting from beneath his tunic.

I had become so used to the sight of armour and weapons every day and everywhere that I barely noticed them anymore. But in that instance the weak gleam of Wídfara's mail shirt in the fire light caught my eye and made me shiver.

I pressed my lips together and turned to Elfhelm whose gaze was still on the doors of the hall. "You were telling me of some adventure of your youth, my lord, something that involved my husband, I think?"

Elfhelm turned back to me and gave me a small nod of respect. He smiled and his voice was light, when he took up the thread of our interrupted talk, but the look of his grey-green eyes were grave.

Elfhelm was distantly related to Éomer, which was the reason that he had inherited lordship over the Eastfold and become Second Marshal of the Mark. He was a few years younger than Éomer, tall, with butter-cup yellow hair and aquiline features. He was taller than Éomer and slender and – needless really to say – an excellent warrior, rider and commander. He had also lived in Aldburg, the main town of the Eastfold – which I had yet to visit – when Éomer had lived there, before his parents had died.

I really _wanted_ to hear more about the childhood and youth of my husband and his friends, but I found it difficult to concentrate on Elfhelm's words. My thoughts strayed to the messenger and the glimpse of Wídfara's mail-shirt again and again… they would be in Éomer's study… A servant would have brought mulled cider or some watery ale… something to drink, not to enjoy…

"I would love to visit Aldburg one of these days, " I said to Elfhelm and forced a smile.

"I think Éomer has planned a visit. The weather seems to hold for the time being. It is a beautiful ride. And it would be an honour to welcome you in my house," Elfhelm replied.

"For me, and for my wife, Anrid."

Now my smile was genuine. "I would love to meet her. Do you have any children?"

Elfhelm grinned at that. A fond grin of hope and happiness. "No, not yet. We were married only shortly before the war. I have not been home all too often since then."

"_A commander's life has no room for a wife."_ That's actually a Rohirric saying. It also rhymes in Rohirric. But I forgot the correct grammar. Again.

* * *

ooo

The meal was already over and the harper finished with his first ballad – a traditional Rohirric ballad, when Éomer returned.

He looked troubled.

He looked _really_ troubled.

I swallowed hard, renwed apprehension constricting my throat. Helmichis stayed that the doors, the presence of quiet strength I had gotten used to since he was first appointed my guard at Dol Amroth this spring.

Éomer did not return to his seat. He walked up to me. But he did not smile. He looked at Elfhelm. Their eyes met – something passed between them, knowledge of darkness…

"I am sorry to disturb you yet again. Lothíriel, Elfhelm. I need you. My lord Harper, would you care to accompany us?"

Éomer turned to the bard. He treated the mysterious harper with the utmost respect. I still did not know who the harper was, nor did anyone else at court. I suspected that Éomer did know who he was, but if he did not want me to know, then he probably had very good reasons for it. I hoped.

The bard inclined his head. "If you wish me to, my lord Éomer."

His speaking voice was rough, sometimes even harsh – scarred, perhaps. It seemed strange that his singing voice could remain so pure and clear in comparison.

I rose from my seat, dropping an automatic curtsy to the remainder of our dinner party. In a fleeting thought I marvelled at how natural such courtly gestures as curtsies and bows.

No use in trying to stall….

I clenched my hands into fists and followed Éomer out of the hall. Behind me followed Elfhelm and the harper, and, unobtrusively,a tall and dangerous shadow, Helmichis; Wídfara had presumably stayed with the messenger.

Éomer led us to his study, a room of dark wood and purple leather, with a large fire place of roughly hewn stones. On a simple wooden chair, a mug of watery ale in his hand, a soldier in the uniform of Gondor sat, looking tired. He wore the white badge of a messenger tied to his left arm.

On Éomer's large desk a roll of cream-coloured parchment was curling up again. It was sealed with the royal seal of Gondor and the red arrow seal that indicates matters of highest importance, national security… _and war…_

"Please, sit down." Éomer pointed at the remaining chairs.

Edoras is well appointed with furniture. For an almost medieval castle, that is. There are many individual chairs, if not the easy-chairs inspired by elvish luxury that I knew from Dol Amroth. And I guess, if I wanted easy-chairs, I could have them made. Although there are not many forests in Rohan, the trade with Eryn Lasgalen in woodcraft of all kind was picking up, and the mountain people in the Eastfold were also quite talented joiners and carpenters.

Anyway. We sat down. I folded my hands in my lap. The skin of my face prickled and there was a funny feeling in my stomach. Elfhelm's' face remained calm. The harper's lined and tortured features were utterly expressionless. Éomer – composed, grave – sat down behind his desk. A wall of wood and kingly duty between us.

"This is Damrod, a member of the royal guard of Minas Tirith. He rode to Edoras on the behalf of the King Elessar. The news he brought are serious, and I wanted you to hear them right away. I think it will be best if I simply read the message to you," Éomer said, not wasting time with any preambles. He picked up the parchment and unrolled it once more.

He looked down at the black tengwar written in the clear hand of some court scribe. "I will spare you the introduction…"

He cleared his throat and began to read in Westron, as the letter was written in that language.

"As you are aware the negotiations between Our realm of Gondor and the realm of Harad concerning the sovereignty of Our southern province of South-Gondor or Harondor have been frayed with difficulties. You are also familiar with the suspicions that have arisen pertaining the existence of a perpetrator, a traitor, in our midst, passing on information to Our neighbouring realms. Now this nefarious activity seems to have reached far beyond the wickedness of treason. On the morning the negotiations with Harad were to continue, Duke Herion of Harondor was found murdered in his quarters. Although his superiors of Harad had only accused the Duke himself of treachery the day before, they now lay claim on Us as the instigators of this deed. An amicable solution seems almost impossible to reach now. Khand and Harad have formed an alliance. Though no details of that treaty are known to Us yet, it can be assumed that it includes military assistance.

We have still not given up on settling the matter diplomatically, and the Valar willing the weathers of winter will delay any outbreak of hostilities for the time being. Nevertheless We have to ask You as Our closest allies, bound to honour the Oath of Eorl, to muster a force of the Rohirrim as soon as may be. We ask that You keep Your troops ready to march and alert until further notice."

Éomer slowly lowered the parchment. "Greetings, etc. etc.; it happened only a week ago."

He looked at Damrod. "Is there anything to add to what I just read?"

Damrod shook his head. "No, my lord. The Duke Herion was found bound and gagged and stabbed five times unto his death. No one of his mansion had seen or heard anything at all. That is all I know; all that everybody knows."

I felt as if bludgeoned by a dwarvish hammer. I felt a fine trembling start at my neck and spread in an icy shiver all over my body. I gritted my teeth so hard that it almost hurt. My gaze was locked on Éomer. But he did not seem to see me at all.

"It will be difficult to keep the troops at the ready throughout the winter," Elfhelm said thoughtfully. "There are not enough free quarters here at Edoras for all the men… and not enough provisions. Perhaps the mountain-keeps?"

Éomer nodded slowly. As a seasoned commander he would be used to dealing with the practical concerns arising from news like that first and worry about what this news would mean later.

"Yes," Éomer said. "That was my first idea, too. But they will have a hell of a time during the winter in those keeps."

"I see no other option at the moment, my lord," Elfhelm shrugged. "They are the only places strategically placed on the way to Gondor that can house that many men. I should summon my captains now, to discuss the new situation."

"Yes. Please, proceed with all due urgency. And send a messenger to Erkenbrand. Choose a White Rider. Erkenbrand has to hear of this as quickly as possible. Would you take Damrod with you? I have ordered quarters to be made ready for him."

Elfhelm nodded, "Very well, my lord."

Then he rose swiftly to his feet and bowed to me and the harper, and deeply to Éomer.

"My lords, my lady."

Damrod followed suit, bowing much deeper, though. He could not match Elfhelm's quick strides to the door; weariness spoke from every angle of his posture. He must have ridden as if the hounds of hell were after him, to bear this news to Edoras so quickly, in barely a week.

The door closed with a soft thud behind him.

* * *

ooo

Still Éomer did not turn to me, but to the harper instead. "My lord, do you know anything that could be helpful with this situation? Gondor is still weak, not even two years after the battle with the Dark Lord. Even in Rohan not all damage has been repaired and the frontiers are not yet safe again. I fear for what could happen, should we find us pitched against Harad and Khand both."

The grizzled harper nodded his head slowly. His destroyed eyes stared blindly in the distance, his features betrayed no emotion at all. "Khand is the larger and richer of both nations, my lord. However, Harad has much to lose with Harondor. Though desolate now, this southern-most province of Gondor once was rich and fair. It is understandable that King Elessar Telcontar seeks to secure what is Gondor's own by the laws of old. But it may be that he has overreached his powers in this."

For a moment the harper fell silent and his look turned even darker and more severe.

"Think of the lands of Arda arrayed on game board, my lord. Imagine the powers that control the fates of the peoples of Arda as the playing pieces. Where can they move? Why would they want to move there? What needs may drive them? It may be that the motivations behind the incidents that push this crisis are as clear as they seem to be. But it may be that they are not… it is hard to tell at this time."

Then the harper suddenly raised his head. "Even though it will be hard on the men, my lord, I think the mountain-keeps are your only hope to maintain a standing force for more than four months. To have so many soldiers in the city or quartered nearby would bring unrest to the capital and grief to the women and the girls. That is all I can think of to advise you of at the moment.

If that will be all, my lord? The boy –" The harper gave me a surprisingly warm smile, "Taliesin, he will be tired by now."

Éomer inclined his head to the harper. "I am grateful, my lord, that you grace the Golden Hall with your songs and your wisdom."

At the last word the wide lips of the bard twitched in a strange way, as if a bitter laugh wanted to flee from his mouth. But he rose in silence and as he went to the door and left the room, he seemed to float; his steps made no noise at all on the wooden floor and his graceful movements – odd in such an old man – seemed not even to stir the shadows.

* * *

ooo

When the door shut behind the bard, I released the breath I had been holding a shivery sigh that almost sounded like a sob. But I did not move. I _could_ not move. I looked down at my hands, still neatly folded in my lap, the knuckles standing out white and painful, lined with the thin blue ribbons of veins.

Suddenly Éomer was in front of me and drew me up from my chair and into his arms.

He held me to his chest in a tight, desperate embrace. I could hear the deep pounding of his heart so close did he hold me. His familiar smell enveloped me; spicy, a little musky of horse and leather and warm, with a hint of my own perfume left on his body from the afternoon.

_The afternoon!_ An afternoon of making love between whispering fields and a rushing river… now that seemed to be a world away and almost unreal. Only a mere taste of what could be… of what could be lost…

The shock of the news all at once shattered the tense lump in my throat that stilled my voice. In heaving sobs my anguish released itself into Éomer's tunic, as he continued to hold me close.

"I wish our peaceful time together could have lasted longer," he whispered into my hair with a hoarse voice.

* * *

ooo

**A/N: **Sorry, folks… no more wedded bliss! ;-)


	91. History Lessons

**A/N:** As a thank-you for your patience I have a **"Character Meme"** up on my LJ!

Inthe** Character Meme **you can **a****sk** any of my fic characters - canon or OC - a question and they'll give you an honest answer. Not necessarily the whole answer, but an honest one.

That means you can ask questions of any of the characters from

"The Tides of Time and the Bones of the Earth",

"Only a Game",

"Lothíriel" and so on

and they will do their best to answer you!

My LJ user name is juno(underscore)magic and there is also a link to my LJ on my profile at FFNet.

Have fun!

* * *

ooo

** 91. History Lessons**

I was cold.

The sunny Narquelië – October – had passed into a cold and grey Hísimë – November. It seemed to me that the winds never stopped blowing that month. Rohan is a country of winds. Although it is sheltered to the south-west by the heights of the Ered-Nimrais, there are cold down-winds carrying the icy scent of glaciers into the streets of Edoras from the peaks of the White Mountains. The Gap of Rohan between the mountain ranges of the Misty Mountains and the White Mountains serves as nothing but a tunnel to concentrate the force of the storms blowing in from the seas and straight across the desolate plains of the Enedwaith. To the north Fangorn and the Misty Mountains offer some shelter, that is true. But the Brown Lands across the Anduin to the north-east are almost devoid of any vegetation, and the winds that rush into the Wold and into East-Emnet from the Brown Lands and the Emyn Muil have a bad name. Sickness and bad luck are supposed to fly in their wake. The only wind that is greeted with smiles seems to be the gentle south-eastern – whispering its way into the East-Fold from the sun-kissed lands of Anórien in springtime.

But any thought of spring was still a long way off. The taste of first snow was in the cold draught whistling around the corners of the bathing house at the back of the palaces of Edoras.

I had just finished a quick shower, Rohan-style; enduring to be splashed with the contents of a huge bucket filled with icy water. My teeth had stopped chattering only moments ago and my body seemed to glow with an inner furnace right now. Extreme spa, is what I call that in my mind. I adjusted the scarf I wore wrapped around my head and started to cross the inner courtyard of Meduseld. I could have gone around the long way inside of the buildings. But I did not feel up to the long corridors and the inevitable bows and curtsies from any servant or dignitary I might meet on the way.

The courtyard was deserted. The fountain was already laid dry for the winter and the summer flowers that had filled the squares of the small formal garden had gone the way of all mortal beings – ending up on the manure heap. The sky was the colour of lead and the air more cold than crisp. And it was windy. My mother would have scolded me to have even thought of going outside in that kind of weather with my hair wet and my body not yet quite dry from the shower. But I wanted some time alone. And fresh air. And anyway. Any self-respecting bacteria or virus would have run off a long time ago…

It is not that living in the royal palace of Rohan is a life-style without any creature comforts. But it is not Minas Tirith or Dol Amroth. And certainly not the Shire.

I stopped at the fountain. The basin was filled with a thin layer of yellow and brown leaves curling at the edges and rustling with a dry, whispery sound as the breeze stirred them. I cast a look at the heavy grey clouds overhead. There would be rain today. The leaves would be a soggy brown mess tomorrow. But to my surprise I discovered that there were still a few late rose blossoms left over from summer on the low rose-bushes that circled the fountain. The only other colour was the neatly trimmed box bushes and the ivy curling around the basin of the fountain. Everything else between the grey of the sky and the grey of the stonewalls that surround the courtyard was dozing in the dull colours of late autumn, just a breath away from the long silent slumber of winter.

I gave a shivery sigh. I was alone in the palace for three weeks. Well, not alone. The palace was full of people. But Éomer was not here. He had called the muster of the Rohirrim, the _éoherë_. Most of the troops would be stationed in the mountain-keeps. Some at Aldburg. Only the King's Riders, his guard – the White Riders – his own _éored_, would be stationed at Edoras. Although the War of the Rings had taken a heavy toll – of the six-thousand spears riding out with Théoden only a little over three-thousand had returned – together with the troops that had been left behind in Rohan during the war, there were about six-thousand riders to be quartered and out-fitted for the _éoherë_. A full muster would really produce some nine-thousand riders at the moment, but three-thousand riders were the home-guard, riding under the command of Dúnhere, the Lord of Harrowdale, our last ditch-defence, who would not leave the country.

As King of Rohan and First Marshal of the Mark the responsibility of the muster rested on Éomer's shoulders. When the first shock of the news died down, Éomer actually arrived at the conclusion that it was not all that bad that he had to hold an _éoherë_ so soon. That way the diminished troops of Rohan could be reorganized and the Rohirrim could get to know their newking. Although Éomer had been a rider all of his life, his ward had been the East-Mark, so that riders from the Wold or the West-Fold might not know him very well.

But seeing to the _éoherë _took a lot of work and more than anything else: _time_.

**Damn. **I missed Éomer so much.

And all of a sudden I had too much time to miss him, too.

After I had put down my foot, Elaine and Gosvintha had reached a truce. It was an uneasy truce, of tight lipped smiles and cold looks, but they managed to be civil in their daily dealings with each other and did not take their mutual antipathy out on anyone else anymore. So I did not have to come up with more ideas of how to keep up the peace in the royal household.

For a few weeks I had been more than busy with getting the household ready for winter.  
Household sounds so… you know, not _too_ big. Like a house with people in it.

But I am talking a _royal_ household here. That means 120 guards – the famous White Riders – just to start with. Add to that 60 Queen's guards. Then there are the servants. There are the scribes and musicians. There are the actual members of our household – the Harper, my ladies-in-waiting, Éomer's advisors… And the families of all of those. Some 447 people all in all, with seven babies due during the winter and early spring.

Getting _that_ kind of household ready for winter is real work. Stocking the larders, drying fruits, mushrooms and other vegetables. Cooking jams and various preserves. Counting and branding the cattle. Luckily not my responsibility. Only making sure that it was done – in effect, standing next to Gosvintha and nodding and looking at the herdsman with a strict expression on my face…

And those bloody ledgers. Keeping track of the treasury. With the keys of Meduseld that I had received on the morning after our wedding-night the responsibility of the up-keep of the household had been dumped neatly into my lap. Still struggling with the Cirth – not to mention the tengwar – and by no means fluent in Rohirric that was not an easy task for me.

Not that I envied Éomer. I had to keep the royal household in order. He had a people and a country to keep safe.

But for weeks I was up before dawn and only got to bed late at night, my mind reeling with the business of the day. Sleep only came to me way after mid-night – though there were other reasons for _that_, too.

Then, suddenly, and it seemed to me that it was literally from one day to the next, the preparations for the winter were done. Today there was really not much to keep me occupied at all.

I still kept up my weapons' training, which had been the reason for the cold shower on this cold morning. So that was done already. Helmichis and Rhawion had taken over the training of the ladies who belonged to the household. I preferred training with Helmichis with his slow smile and calm and easy manner. Rhawion was so grim. But Elaine was no less grim than the captain of my guard, and quite skilled in the use of knives. A professional hazard, no doubt. Sorcha was clumsy and easily flustered. Though I knew she would have no compunctions in beating any attacker on the head with a frying pan, she was terribly self-conscious when asked to try and attack one of the male guards with a knife. Helmichis did his best to put her at ease, but somehow that only made matters worse. He tried to help her, but she brushed his attempts off, with raised eyebrows and a falsely cheerful "No, boy-o!"

In the afternoon a meeting with Thorkel, the chief-scribe of Meduseld, was scheduled. Éomer wanted a history of the War of the Rings. As I knew more than anyone else in Edoras about the different stages of the war – except maybe our mysterious bard – the task to tell the story to the scribes and answer their questions fell to me. It was a good thing that I had started writing everything down so soon after it had happened and that I had written a second version of the story soon after I had sent my first journal away with Gandalf. That way the events that had led me here were clear in my mind, down to the most curious details.

My gaze drifted along an inscription in the stone basin of the fountain. It was Rohirric, written in Cirth… something about water and memory. _Memory…_ There would be a Rohirric history of the War of the Rings and _I_ would be in that history. What had happened would never be forgotten now. I sighed. Not for the first time I wondered how the story of the war and the history of Arda had leaked into the world where I was born.

A sudden gust of wind made me shiver. I remembered my still wet hair and started walking again. As I hurried towards the door on the left hand side of the courtyard, that led to the royal apartments, a cold drop of rain hit my cheek. It was November, Hísimë. Winter waited just around the corner.

* * *

ooo

The meeting with the head of the court-scribes took place in the library. I would have preferred Éomer's study, because I felt safe there, and close to Éomer, even though he was away. But the scribe wanted to take notes, of course, so he needed a table of his own. Therefore we were in the library.

There was a fire in the fire-place. Thorkel was an old man, tall and thin, his skin sagged around his bones like wrinkled, soggy paper. His nose stood out like the beak of a bird of prey. His eyes were the grey-green you will find often in the Rohirrim, but watery and strained from a life spent reading and writing. His hair, once a pale blond, probably, had turned into a wispy white tinged with yellow. He wore a skull cap and robes of brown. He spoke in a low, slightly quavering voice.

Although he treated me with utmost courtesy, I somehow had the feeling that he disapproved of me and that he eyed me with contempt whenever I turned away from him. But I never even caught him with a frown on his face. Perhaps I was only imagining that he did not like me. And even if he despised me… for whatever reason… well, there was nothing I could do about it. Holding out for universal sympathy is a fruitless effort.

"Well," I said in a friendly manner, gesturing to Ini to pour some mulled cider for us. "Where did we stop?"

The story Éomer and I had agreed upon was as close to the truth as possible. Gandalf had met me in my native country and asked me to attend the Council of Elrond, as I was a student of lore and might be able to give some advice in the matters of the rings. I had gone to Bree to meet Gandalf there. When he had not come, I had accompanied Aragorn…

"You were telling me about the Council of Elrond Peredhel in Imladris, my lady." Thorkel had spread out wax tablets and styli in front of him. Now he looked at me expectantly. "I should like to know about the lore that was discussed and how wisdom of a far-away country such as yours was of aid to our troubles."

I gave the scribe a long look while I tried my best not to show how my heart had started to race. Finally I swallowed dryly. "I am afraid that I am not at liberty to discuss that. I am bound by my oath to keep the secrets of the council… secret." I ended lamely.

The question of what I had done to aid the quest – though it had been answered by wizard, elf and brother – sometimes still woke in the small hours of the night. But by now it was only a sigh in the darkness and when I turned and inhaled the familiar, exhilarating scent that was all Éomer, and all mine, I could close my eyes and go back to sleep again.

"Ahhh… I see," the old man commented. But he did not look convinced. "Of course."

I proceeded to tell the story of how the fellowship was put together, how the preparations of the journey had been made… how it had been to walk for endless miles through the desolate country that had once been Eregion.

At some point of my story-telling Ini came in and lit the candles. The thick lead-framed windows with their greenish hue were not enough to light up the room even on a bright day. Today, with the rain and the dark clouds candles had to be lit even this early in the afternoon.

When the tale came to the part where we had made it out of Moria – barely – Sorcha and Ini appeared with a tray with soup bowls. I could see that the old scribe was grateful for the warmth and nourishment the soup provided. As always when I thought about Moria I felt cold and shivery, so I welcomed the soup as well.

Thus the afternoon went by.

* * *

ooo

When the scribe finally packed his things up and left the library, I felt drained. More than anything I now wished for Éomer's strong and soothing presence. I tried to picture him, walking the walls of Helm's Deep with Elfhelm and his captains… But I failed. I had never been to Helm's Deep. I had only a vague image in my mind from a movie I had seen once, long ago, in another life, in another world. I huddled on the faintly gothic arch chair and suddenly felt very tired and alone.

But luckily I had not much time to continue sitting there, feeling sorry for myself. Following Éomer's wishes I kept up the formal dinners most evenings. And for that I had to change from my comfortable cream and green tunic into a real dress.

I saw to it that the fire was well banked, so that the precious library was not in any danger because of stray sparks. I put out the candles and left the room.

* * *

ooo

A few days later I visited the scriptorium to take a look at the progress of the "History of the War of the Rings".

The Scriptorium was situated in the eastern wing of the palace behind the Hall of Meduseld. It was a big room with large, precious, clear glass windows and great chandeliers so that even on dark days the room could be lit brightly enough to allow the scribes to do their work.

Though the Rohirrim are not a people of books and lore like the Gondorians, that does not mean that they are illiterate. Well, most common folk are, of course. But that's not so much different in Gondor. And although most stories and histories of Rohan _are_ passed on in songs and ballads, there are books. In the royal palace – and in the households of the high lords of the five provinces of Rohan as well – there have always been scribes, books and libraries. There is more to Rohan than horses and riders!

But it was very much like someone from 21st century earth imagines a medieval scriptorium to be like. Desks, parchment, quills, calligraphy and pictures curling around the letters at the beginning of each chapter. Silence and an atmosphere of lore and reverence.

When I entered the room, the scribes rose from their various seats and tasks and bowed deeply. Although not all of them wore the horrible brown colours Thorkel seemed to prefer, all of them wore robes and those monk-like skull-caps. Though those had nothing to do with faith, and all with keeping hair from falling into the wet paint of their calligraphy.

Thorkel actually smiled when he saw me. He bowed again when he reached my side. "My lady, it is an honour to welcome you here!"

He gestured solemnly at the desks. I bit my lip. An ironic "Well, thank you for having me" was probably not the correct answer of a queen to the head of the court-scribes. I settled for inclining my head. Hopefully with that air of gracious coolness I had seen Éowyn use so effectively.

"The first three chapters are prepared for your inspection, my lady. If you will step over here?" He almost danced ahead of me, with excited, spidery movements, the long sleeves of his robe flying. Thorkel was writing the history himself. He led me to his large desk that was placed at an ideal angle to the largest window. A number of single pages of parchment were spread out on the desk. They were filled with neatly printed runes. Cirth, to my relief. Although I had started learning Cirth only when Helmichis took over my tuition from Elladan and Elrohir, I was far more comfortable with the clear, spiky letters of that script than with the curling, flowing beauty of tengwar. I was so obviously neither elf nor Dúnadan!

"Here," Thorkel pointed, "is the first page. It continues here – then down here – and here… And this is the last page of the third chapter." He gestured magnificently at the page at the bottom right-hand corner of the desk.

"You have a wonderfully clear hand, Master Thorkel," I said.

"That is necessary for my duties," Thorkel replied stiffly, but there was real warmth in his eyes, as he motioned one of the younger scribes to get me a chair.

"Sit down, my lady, and if you have any questions regarding the script, I will be at your complete disposal. I would only ask you not to touch the pages. The colours may not be completely dry yet."

"Thank you very much, Master Thorkel," I nodded to the scribe and sat down on the simple wooden stool that was offered to me. Yes, the room had a definite monastery-like feel to it.

I rubbed my eyes and concentrated on the black runes whispering my story from the cream coloured parchment in front of me.

I was slow reading this.

Although it was by far easier for me to decipher the Cirth than the tengwar, it was still Rohirric. So I had to first get the words out of the runes and then a meaning out of the words.

Concentrating on the reading and translating, I forgot my surroundings completely.

The introduction was really well written indeed. The language seemed a little archaic, almost Tolkienesque to me; a thought that made me smile, but it touched on every little bit of information I had been able to give to the scribe, presenting a well-rounded, concise, and precise story of the background of the War of the Rings.

I nodded to myself. It had been an excellent idea of Éomer to order that history.  
But I had to admit that I was eager to find the point where I would appear in that history.  
Eagerly I read on.

Suddenly I frowned.

I moved back to the beginning of the chapter and read the last paragraphs again.

My frown deepened.

It was the tale of Bree and the hobbits failing to meet Gandalf, and how they found a Dúnadan instead to be their leader.

The hobbits were there.  
Every one of them. Complete with their family trees in the margin.  
Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin.

But there was something missing there.

I read the paragraph again, with a mounting feeling of anger and confusion rising up inside of me.

There was something missing in this "History of the War of the Rings".

Something was being purposefully left out of the story.

And that something was – _me_.

**I was not there!**

I stared at the parchment, trying to figure out what to do or say.

Finally I raised my head and stared at Thorkel.

The old man was patiently waiting for me to come to an end. Now he gave me a sweet, expectant smile – well, as sweet a smile as you can get out of a face that looks like crumpled parchment penetrated by an eagle's beak.

"It is a wonderful piece of work, my lady, isn't it? Even if I do say so myself!" He positively beamed at me.   
I swallowed hard. My heart was thumping heavily in my breast.  
"But…" My voice sounded weak and shaky to my ears. "Master Thorkel…"  
I tried again. "It… it is very well written, Master Thorkel. And your hand – so clear – that is amazing… But… there is something missing, Master Thorkel. You have left me out of the story!"

The scribe blinked at me, full of amazement. Then comprehension visibly dawned on his face. His smile grew wide and a little flustered. "But of course! How could you be, my lady! You are the Queen of Rohan! It would not be at all appropriate if you were in a history of men and war!"

I sat there and gaped at the old scribe. I tried to think of anything to say to him, but nothing came to mind. After a long moment I forced a smile that probably looked like a grimace.

"Thank you very much, Master Thorkel. Continue your good work. I am sorry, but I have to leave you now – my duties… And I don't want to keep you from your work…"

I rose and somehow made my way to the door, with the scribes bowing and smiling to my right and to my left.

On my way back to the royal apartments Sorcha and Elaine who had accompanied me to the scriptorium were chatting animatedly about the various writings and paintings they had seen. But not a word of what they were saying really registered with me.

Once safely in my rooms, I sent both of them away, claiming to be exhausted.

I slumped down on the window seat in my study.

I felt strangely light-headed and disoriented. I looked down at my knees, the green fabric of my dress, the pale skin of my hands, the pinkish, slightly glistening scar tissue that curled snake-like around my wrists.

I had not been in the books on earth.

Now I would not be in the books here.

_Did I even exist at all?_

* * *

ooo

**A/N:** Details of the miliatry structure of Rohan can be found in "Unfinished Tales", "Cirion and Eorl" and "The Battles of the Fords of Isen" and the various footnotes.


	92. Hide and Sing

**A/N: **On my LJ – entry of Feb. 11th "Ask Lothy!" – there is still a character meme where you can ask any of my fictional characters (be they canon or original) a question and _they_ will answer you!

**oooOooo**

**92. Hide and Sing**

A year ago I thought that the stirrup-cup of mead or cider presented with blessings to a departing friend or guest was a wonderful Rohirric tradition.

Today my hands were cold and shaking with the memory of the goblet's cold metal pressed against my fingers. The wind – north-eastern and biting – drove tears to my eyes. _Yeah, right. _My sight of the Éomer and his guards riding down the road towards the city's gates blurred.

Without another thought I turned and ran.

**oooOooo**

I went into hiding in Éomer's library. He had taken to smoking a pipe there on quiet evenings now and again. The Halflings' weed…

The smell is not bad, actually, spicy and pungent, and smoky, of course. But, best of all, it lingered in the leather of the chairs and in the air of the room and reminded me of Éomer.

I curled up on one of the armchairs over-stuffed with burgundy coloured leather. There was no fire. It was cold in the room. But I could not rouse myself to either alert a servant or light the fire myself. A feat, which I was quite able to accomplish on my own by now.

I sat with my arms hugging my knees to my chest, huddled in a heap like a child. My teeth were clenched. I widened my eyes in a desperate effort of trying not to cry. The skin and muscles around my forehead were so tight that I was hurting.

I tried not to think.

There were such stupid thoughts threatening to enter my brain!

Thoughts like: _why couldn't he have a normal job? Why did he have to be a king, a warrior and a politician?_

I did not want to be reduced to telling myself _"You wanted this life, **now shut the hell up and get on with it!**"_

But I was getting there.

Éomer had been home for only three days.

Three days for the horses to rest, three days to attend councils and to spend some hours in bed with his wife.

There were no news from Minas Tirith, so when the three days were over, Éomer was back on Hiswa and on his way first to Aldburg and then to check on the eastern mountain keeps.

What was worst about all of this was that I _knew_ he actually _enjoyed_ getting away from the councils and politics of the court at Edoras. The thinking and considering, the debating and deciding of matters of law and state weighed heavier on Éomer's mind than the quartering and exercising of his troops, the thought of defending his country was less fraught with fear for him than the organization of law-courts and schools.

**oooOooo**

Outside, Hísimë, November, was waning in short grey days with gusts of bitter winds carrying the first snow-flakes down from the Ered Nimrais.

There was not much to do in Edoras and the Golden Hall of Meduseld this time of the year.

The household was ready for the winter. The ledgers were in order, the pantries were filled, and the herbs of the houses of healing were stocked up well. All in all, the household functioned smoothly now. The newcomers had settled in. Perhaps not comfortably or easily, but we had settled in.

There was not much to do now but spin and weave and knit – and wait for another messenger of war to arrive from Minas Tirith; this time bearing the red arrow that would lead Éomer away from me, to war and danger.

There was nothing to do for me really, but wait for that blasted red arrow.

I still could not spin, or weave or knit; much to the amusement of my ladies-in-waiting and Mistress Gosvintha.

The royal Mearas could come and go as they wished between the plains around Edoras and the royal stables. There was no real need to exercise Mithril. I did so nevertheless, at least every other day. Much like Éomer I did feel the need to get out and away from the court. Only my options of actually getting out and away were much more limited than his.

Apart from that, I had some weapons' training and some lessons. Writing and reading, Rohirric and history.

I enjoyed Rohirric – which I still did with Helmichis' help. Writing and reading (tengwar and the Cirth), a younger scribe had taken over, a shy young man with hazelnut coloured hair, with the impossible name of Amhlaoibh, which I still could not pronounce correctly; and he was not old or secure enough in his position not to mind this failing. History lessons Master Thorkel had taken over. And although he was kind and a mine of information, I could not let go of the fact that he had deleted my small part in the history of the War of the Rings.

So it came about that there was really no duty that demanded my presence this morning after I bid my husband and his riders farewell.

So it came about that I sat in Éomer's cold study, inhaled the lingering scent of his pipe smoke and tried very hard not to cry.

**oooOooo**

Suddenly a small noise alerted me. The sound of the door being opened slowly, carefully – and being closed again, just as slowly, just as carefully. Then, the sound of small feet tip-toeing into the room. Soft, excited breathing.

Then a frightened gasp, as little Solas realized that the study was not quite as empty as she had thought it to be.

The little girl stood in front of me, her lips quivering, her face screwed up, ready to cry.

My own heart was beating faster from this unexpected disturbance, but I uncurled my legs and tried to smile at Solas in a reassuring way. "Hey, sweetie! Are you hiding from your mummy? Did you run away?"

For a moment Solas hesitated, obviously not quite sure if she ought to run for it or if it was safe to stay and talk to me.

"I have been hiding here, too," I offered.

"But you are the queen!" Solas blurted out. Solas was three years and some months old now and her speech pattern had improved immensely since Taliesin had become her friend. "Queens not hide!"

I sighed. "Well, I guess I shouldn't hide. But I have been feeling blue and so I sneaked off and hid in here, feeling a bit sorry for myself."

Solas gave me a wide-eyed, astonished look. "Blue? You're no blue!"

She looked me up and down intensely, her eyebrows screwed together in a frown.

"Sad," I explained. "I am sad because my husband had to ride away. You know, the king, Éomer, he has ridden away today."

"Awwwww," was the little girl's reply and then she nodded thoughtfully. "He gone **away**! – Will he come back?"

Her face was suddenly very quiet and her eyes turned into a darker colour than their usual cheerfully sparkling blue-grey. She did not really remember her father. But she _did_ remember how her mother told her about her father going away, and then, later, that her father would not be back.

_That he would not be back…_

An icy weight dropped into the pit of my stomach.

_That he would not be back…_

But Éomer would be back.

This time.

He was only inspecting the troops.

He would be back soon.

_This time._

I didn't even realize when I started to cry.

But suddenly the warm weight of Solas was on my lap and clinging to me, kissing me with wet, sweet kisses and crying herself to keep me company in my misery.

My tears subsided quickly. It was not as if I had any real reason to cry my heart out. It was probably only a bout of PMS-hormones wreaking havoc with my emotions…

When I calmed down again, it took not long to quiet Solas. Soon the room was filled with soft breathing and the sucking sounds of a small child taking comfort by mouthing her right thumb. Soon I felt soothed. Warm, friendly, snuggling Solas was a great comforter.

But she soon got bored with the arrangement and started fidgeting.

"It's cold here!" she complained finally and squirmed free off my hold.

"Well," I said and got down on my knees in front of the fire place. "I think I can do something about that. But don't you want to go back to your mother? She might be worried and looking for you!"

A wicked little grin crept on Solas' face at my question. "No worried. I'm s'posed to be playin'."

"With whom are you supposed to be playing?" I turned around and frowned at the child. I had an idea with whom she was fooling around. And I did not want _him_ to be blamed for little Solas' jinxes.

For a moment Solas chewed on her lower lip, apparently considering if she could weasel her way out of an answer. Finally she replied in her high, sweet little girl's voice. The sound of innocence… _yeah, right!_

"Hide'n'Seek. With Tally."

Tally was Taliesin. The boy, though only about six or seven years old, had swiftly turned from a suspiciously eyed newcomer into the leader of the younger children at the hall. As such he was routinely asked to mind the younger ones. So if anyone noticed that Solas had disappeared, it was Tally who'd catch hell first. From Gosvintha, Sorcha and Elaine in that order. With the one or the other of the female servants adding their various grains of salt, no doubt.

I raised my eyebrows at Solas. "Do you want Tally to get into trouble?"

Solas looked away. She resumed chewing her lower lip. There was a hint of a blush on her round little cheeks.

"You know that if your mother wants you now and Tally does not know where you are that he will get in trouble, don't you? He will be punished because _you_ ran off. Do you want that?"

"Nooooo!" Solas wailed, her face filled with alarm. "But… I don't wanna back! I don' unnerstand them's others."

I sighed. Solas was better at Rohirric than I was, but at times it was still hard for her to follow her playmates' debates, especially if they used their local dialects. Tally – although born and bred Rohirrim – had soaked up Westron like a sponge, along with the songs the Harper was teaching him. There was no hint of an accent left to his speech by now. I knew that it was far better for Solas _not_ to keep talking Westron with Tally, as this would set her apart from the other children, but well, I could understand how she felt. In fact, I understood her only too well.

"Do you know where Tally is right now? Could you go and get him?"

Solas – her little face screwed up, ready to cry once more – shook her head emphatically.

"He be lookin' fo' me! I don' 'no where!"

I sighed. Again. Contrary to Tolkien's description of the Golden Hall of Meduseld the royal palaces of the Rohirrim are quite big enough to get lost in them. They are not as big as the Citadel of Minas Tirith, but they are a good deal larger than Dol Amroth or Tarnost.

Well, first things first.

That was a lesson I had learned well by now.

I finished preparing the fire, big logs, branches, kindling – then reached for a pine twig that was sticky with resin and lit it in a candle. I carefully put the twig to the kindling. Then I blew gently on the flame until it had caught well.

I rocked back on my heels and turned to Solas again who – in turn – had calmed down while I was busy with the fire. She had her right thumb in her mouth and was watching me with a half anxious, half hopeful expression on her face.

"Do you have any idea how we could help Tally to find us here? Quickly?" I asked Solas.

That sweet little frown slid back into place as Solas considered my question.

After a long moment's silence that was broken only by the soft sucking sounds of Solas' lips squeezing around her thumb, the little girl replied.

"We could **sing**! He'd hear that an' come!"

For a moment I just stared at her. The palaces – as I mentioned before – are if not huge, though certainly large. On the other hand… Tally's ears seemed to be more like a cat's than a human's, hearing the slightest imperfection in music – be it vocal or instrumental.

And if _I_ was going to sing, there would be more than only a slight imperfection in the song…

"Do you really think so?"

A bright smile appeared on Solas' face. The sun after the rain, unexpected and warm.

"Yes! He will! You 'no any songs? Nu ones?"

I settled back down in the arm chair. _Songs…_ a song to sing right now… on cue…

There was no song that was _not_ new to Solas that came to my mind.

"Well, I think I know one or two songs you don't know, sweetie. But don't laugh if I don't sing well, O.K.? I would stop at once and that would get you _and_ Tally into trouble!"

I was not sure if Solas understood everything I told her. But she nodded thoughtfully, pulled her thumb out of her mouth and looked up at me expectantly, waiting for my song.

I cleared my throat and started into the first fairly easy song that came to my mind.

_"Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away,_

_Now it looks as though they're here to stay._

_Oh, I believe in yesterday…_

_Suddenly, I'm not half the man I used to be,_

_There's a shadow hanging over me._

_Oh, yesterday came suddenly…_

_Why she had to go, I don't know, she wouldn't say._

_I said something wrong, now I long for yesterday…"_

Solas was hanging on my every word. Soon she was crooning along with me. She still had no singing voice at all, only that child's squeaking that can be so sweet and so grating at the same time.

I don't know if it was my own off-key rendition of that old Beatles' song, or Solas' sweet screeching, but after I had finished the song for the second time, the door of the study opened and Tally had indeed found our hiding place.

"There you are!" he called out and ran forwards, relief obvious on his face. "You know you are not to go into another wing of the palace when we play together!"

Then, belatedly, he turned towards me and – ac ting as if he had only just noticed me – bowed deeply at once. "My lady, I am sorry!"

I raised my eyebrows at him. "Don't try to tell me that you did not know I was here. I am sure you recognized my beautiful singing when you were still quite far away from this room!"

There's a reason why I only sing along very, very quietly when I am in company. I am not only an idiot when it comes to sewing, I also can't keep a melody for the love of little apples.

"Well… _er…_it was more that I did not recognize the song, my lady! And I think I know most of the Gondorian songs by now!" Taliesin replied diplomatically, although his tone was somewhat indignant at the fact that there were still songs around he did not know.

"Well," I imitated him. "That might be because it's not a Gondorian song. It's a song from the land where I was born." _Well, not really, but from the world or time or dimension where I was born, anyway; so it was close enough to the truth._

"Could you sing it again?" Taliesin's eyes were almost pleading. He did not want money or sweets or a toy sword. He begged the soldiers for bawdy songs, the women folk for nursery-rhymes and the minstrels for ballads; those were his sweets and treats.

_Oh, well…_ He had already heard the song… I might as well do it again. After all, they were only children. There could be no harm in singing some of my old songs with them. They would like the songs too much to make fun of me. And there was no adult around here this time of the day who could hear me. After all, I _had _in fact been hiding in here, too.

So I cleared my throat again and launched into another off-key rendition of "_Yesterday_".

When I started into it a second time, I was accompanied by the heart-breakingly clear descant of Tally's boyish soprano and the lilting croon of Solas still evolving voice.

The singing was fun.

Also, sitting there at the fireside with two friendly and funny children for company it was impossible to feel lonely and sorry for myself.

_Perhaps I should sing more often?_

**oooOooo**

We had progressed to another of my favourite songs, "Country Roads", when the door opened once again.

_"Almost heaven, West-Virginia, Blue Ridge Mountains… life is old there, older than the trees, younger than the mountains blowing like a breeze… country roads take me home, to the place I belong…"_

And again, on the second attempt Taliesin was singing along with me – in fact, it was more like _I_ was singing along with little Tally, and not the other way around.

And again, the door opened to admit someone alerted to our hiding place by the noise of our singing.

This time, it was the Harper.

For a moment he stood in the door and only looked at me with his strange, blinded gaze turned towards me, looking at me, but not seeing me. His straggly mane of unkempt grey-silvery locks was unchanged, but his robes were warm and neat now that he lived in the palace. I knew that Gosvintha had seen to that.

I don't know what he sensed. He could not see me, or the children, after all. How he could judge the atmosphere of the room with us fallen silent, I don't know. But he did.

"My lady," he said with his strange raspy speaking voice. "May I join you? I don't think I know these songs yet, either."

"Of course," I said. "Come in and sit down!"

With my eyes I tried to tell Taliesin to get up and assist his blind teacher to another of the armchairs. But the boy only shook his head and stayed where he was. The Harper closed the door behind him and moved slowly and carefully from the door to the armchair opposite of me. He did not stumble or connect with any piece of furniture. He moved as if he had some inner radar that told him exactly where everything and everyone was in the room. He sat down slowly, as if every movement was an ache in his bones and handed his lap-harp to Tally.

Then he raised his blind eyes to me again. Suddenly his lined and pain-wracked features transfigured completely, as he gave me a smile that was warm like summer-sunshine.

"So this is why you never sing along with the other in the evening, my lady?"

I winced. He _had_ heard my singing.

But before I had time to think about yet ability that I lacked for to be a perfect queen of Rohan, the bard continued, with his voice as gruff and rough as ever, "I would love to hear you sing more often."

Then the harper pointed to Tally to get the harp ready for playing.

"Do you know any other new songs, my lady?"


	93. Red Arrow

**93. Red Arrow**

The winter had gone by.

Short, dark days and long, dark nights. Cold and wind and snow. A bout of sickness – probably influenza – but luckily only two old women and one little boy died. The Yuletide celebrations. Raucous dwarves visiting from the Caves of Aglarond. Helmichis gaining a dance with Sorcha. Singing. Taliesin. The Harper. Smiles. Even in that ruined face. More songs. And sometimes, late at night, for my ears only, his voice deep and warm with his love for me: Éomer.

But the winter had gone by.

And now, they were gone. He was gone.

It was only the end of Narvinyë. For weeks the weather would stay cold yet. Although the wide plains of Rohan stretched out muddy and grey at the moment, snow might yet return to the Riddermark before the advent of spring. But the worst of winter was over. Here, and in the South. And in the South the enemy waited, ready to strike. Ready to claim Harondor.

I sat in Éomer's study, on his high-backed chair, behind his desk.

On the dark wood of the desk the remains of many hours of planning and debating were scattered.

A good map of Rohan, Gondor and Harad, too good a map to be risked in battle.

The letter that arrived two days after my birthday.

The letter had been in a package. A package of oiled leather to protect the missives from rain and snow. The leather was stained, the shape of package awry from being pressed against the back of the rider that carried it to Edoras. Not a very impressive package, really. But the first thing Éomer pulled out of that package was the red arrow calling him and his _éored _to war.

For days the red arrow had been on this desk, moved this way and that, sometimes toyed with, sometimes used to point to strategically important positions.

Now it was gone.

Éomer had taken the red arrow with him on riding out of Edoras this morning at dawn.

The letter was still here. Cream-coloured parchment that curled up at the top and the bottom. Written in the clear hand-writing of a court-scribe. For a moment I halted in what was surely the four-hundredth time of re-reading the letter. I realized with a small start that the tengwar runes were no more trouble for me to read now than my first books had been after a year at school, when I had entered second grade – boldly printed books they had been, bound in gaudy colours, back on earth, back in a life I was beginning to forget.

The letter.

_Take the good with the bad._

Queen Arwen was a mother now. Precisely a year after she had conceived, she gave birth to two girls with dark hair and grey eyes, Celair and Celu. The birth was easy. The queen was well and the children healthy.

My sister-in-law was pregnant with her first. She was due to give birth in Cermië. She sent her best wishes to the uncle and aunt-to-be. She dwelt in Minas Tirith for the time being to be with the new mother, Queen Arwen. Also, of course, because during the war Faramir would reside in Minas Tirith, once again the ruling steward of Gondor.

Regards also from my adoptive parents, Imrahil and Míriël, and their two other sons, the eldest, Elphir, captain of the royal guard at Minas Tirith, and Mel, the youngest, not even ready for his page's training. Greetings also from Prince Faramir of Ithilien and the Lords Elladan and Elrohir who had come to Minas Tirith to be with their sister, the Queen, to be with her in the hour of birth.

All the best also from Aragorn Elessar Telcontar, King of Arnor and Gondor.

_And the red arrow…_

I looked at the desk.

The map, the letter. Wax tablets, filled with notes in Éomer's scrawl, long lists of preparations, all of them neatly struck out. A forgotten beaker that had held mead. An earthenware bowl that still held the ashes from the last pipe Éomer had smoked in here, talking and talking with his commanders, with Gimli, the high lords of Rohan and the Harper.

A heavy brass candlestick. The candles had not been replaced yet. At the right end of the desk a stack of books on warfare and Harondor.

The room was cold. A remnant of smoke seemed to blur the edges of the armchairs and the bookshelves. The clear light of this Narvinyë morning filtered through the stained glass-windows in their rounded lead-frames in pale, turquoise hue. It was a cool light and I shivered. Not even the dogs were left to give some of their hairy warmth to the room.

They bounded alongside their master and king right now, excited at the long run to the south.

I stared at the desk.

The letter, the map, the books, the wax tablets. Mead mug and candlestick.

Unbidden my thoughts returned to this morning, when the sky was pale and bright with sunrise…

**oooOooo**

…the brilliant light of a cold morning in Narvinyë, as it glinted on the mail of the _éored_. Six-thousand spears. Again. The king of Rohan rode south to honour friendship and alliance. And six-thousand rode with him.

The stirrup-cup so heavy in my hands. The golden goblet, beset with jewels, engraved with runes of ancient blessings. Godspeed and good luck. The swirling of the mead in the goblet.

I held out the goblet.

He took it from me.

Our hands did not touch.

He drank deeply and returned the goblet to me. For a moment his gaze seemed to linger on me, dark, so dark.

"Fare thee well, Queen of Rohan," he said and turned away.

The heavy green cloak billowed in the wind as he mounted his proud stallion, Hiswa, and the sun gleamed on the red and gold of his armour. The wind blew back the horse hair that crowned his helmet in a silvery stream.

Clarions sounded; a cheerful, sparkling sound that echoed all around us in the morning sun. Banners unfurled and flowed in the light-blue wind. The big grey dogs – yesterday nothing but playful puppies, today accompanying their master to war – danced around the king and his commanders, eager to run. So eager.

Hoof beats rolled like thunder through the roads of Edoras. Trampled evergreen stained the pavement of the streets in the hope of good-bye and not fare-well. No flowers yet in Narvinyë.

A stream of gold and silver, green and red, the six-thousand riders of the Mark flowed along the Snowbourne River and spilled onto the Great West Road. They rode right into the sun, or so it seemed. They disappeared into the morning light. But the thundering echoes of the passage of six-thousand horses, of six-thousand riders (not counting the numerous servants and camp-followers, of course) seemed to reverberate in the very earth beneath my feet for hours...

**oooOooo**

…the letter, the map, the books, the wax tablets. Mead mug and candlestick.

_And the red arrow was on its way to the South._

A small noise alerted me. I raised my head. Ini, my personal servant and hand-maiden, hesitated in the doorway. There was pity in her shy small face.

I took a deep breath.

"I think this study needs to be cleaned up and aired, Ini. Would you be so kind and see to it?"

The young woman dropped me a curtsy. "Yes, my lady."

I rose from my seat and went to the door.

Mistress Gosvintha had asked to discuss the spring planting with me. With the king gone, the management of the king's lands was my responsibility. Because the king of Rohan emerged from the position of the military commander of the Gondorian province of Calenardhon, the king's own lands are not large. They are only a fraction of the size of the Eastfold. But they are rich lands. The Harrowdale and its mountains with all of their ore belong to the king. The area around Snowbourne River and the part of the Eastfold that is called only the "Folde" are the king's lands. A number of sizable villages are the king's property. Actually, Edoras is part of the king's domain. But try and tell _that _to the mayor and the citizens' council of Edoras.

_Spring-planting…_

I closed the door behind me and went to find Gosvintha.

**oooOooo**

In the Golden Hall I found Gosvintha. With Gosvintha I found Elaine. Elaine had wanted to go south with the troops. After all, she was the best healer in all of Rohan. Well, there was no doubt about that. However, the need was not as it had been in the War of the Rings. This time the desperation held the hope that a brief skirmish might be sufficient to settle the matter of the southern border between Gondor and Harad. A show of strength, a test of will, no more. And home at the beginning of the summer.

It was not necessary to put noble women at risk this time.

And there would be enough male healers with them – Elaine's own apprentice among them.

Elaine had lost her temper.

I could have told her that this would not get her anywhere with Éomer. He had grown up with a hot-tempered sister. And the shock of almost losing his beloved sister on the fields of the Pelennor was not likely to make the thought of putting any female member of his household at risk on the battle-field.

I could see in Elaine's tight-lipped silence that she was taking it hard. As always she was dressed immaculately, in sombre colours. White and grey and black were her colours and she favoured the long, regal robes of Gondor.

I was dressed in the every day style of a Rohirric woman, dun pants and a dark-green tunic down to my boots, with slits at the sides to give me more mobility, a blouse of a colour a shade lighter than the pants, with long, elaborately embroidered sleeves, and a proper headpiece of that same fabric set with a golden circlet. Pretty, appropriate and quite comfortable. But not very impressive. I felt small in comparison. And I wanted to scratch my head badly.

For Elaine this Middle-earth seemed to be too small.

For me, strangely enough, Middle-earth seemed endlessly wide and free and wild.

I admit, sometimes I felt lost.

I admit, sometimes I felt at a loss.

But this… this was my land, my chosen home. _My land._

_Hold on to that thought, Lothíriel,_ I thought and turned to Gosvintha and the estate manager of the king's lands, Master Motull. He reminded me of Helmichis. He had the same down-to-earth quietness, although he was more squat than tall and burly. He was fair-haired and blue eyed, a true Rohirrim, but the traditional long hair did not really suit him. He looked like a rock hung with weeds.

Gosvintha ignored Elaine's glowering presence (of course). Although they worked well together, the two women still did not like each other. Inwardly I heaved a sigh. The turmoil in Elaine's eyes was a chafing against the constraints of her world. I knew how that felt and I would have liked to offer my sympathies. But I felt they would not be welcome. Some things you need to master alone. With some things no one can help you.

My thoughts went back to Éomer's study. The letter, the map, the mug of mead. _And the red arrow that was there no longer…_

I smiled at Gosvintha and Motull. I gestured at the long table. "Why don't we sit down and have some tea as we talk these matters over?"

Gosvintha nodded approvingly and signalled to one of the servants, to take care of that request. It was Alina, the former maid-servant of Éowyn who promptly hurried for the kitchens to get tea and biscuits prepared for us. My former teacher and now my personal scribe, Amhlaoibh, had already spread out wax tablets, parchment, ink and quills at his seat, ready to take notes and compose decrees at my command.

A short time later we were settled at the table and I felt much better for the mug of hot tea with honey in my hands. "Well, Master Motull, now to the matter at hand. What should I know about the spring planting?"

Gosvintha smiled at me in a reassuring way. Elaine did not.

At the doors of the Golden Hall Helmichis and Rhawion stood at the ready. Today the captain of the Queen's Guard, Rhawion, and his second in command, Helmichis, had guard duty at the Golden Hall, along with Lunt and Njall. To honour the departure of the king and the six-thousand riders. Helmichis and Lunt were inside the hall, Rhawion and Njall outside in the cold wind. All of them in their best uniform, no less. _To honour…_

I firmly turned my head away and my mind on the matters at hand.

_The spring planting…_

**oooOooo**

"Do you really think it is wise to teach _all of the children_?"

Master Thorkel seemed not convinced of the wisdom of my plans. It was afternoon. The afternoon of the day Éomer rode off to the South. The brilliant light of the morning had faded into a grey day with low clouds pressing down on us and denying any hope of an early spring. I had decided to keep the day busy as usual. That included a meeting with Master Thorkel to discuss the idea of opening a school in Edoras. An idea Master Thorkel did not really like at the moment. However, Éomer had left a decree with me that said explicitly that the details of the organization of this first school in Edoras were entirely up to _my_ discretion. In fact I knew that _Éomer_ wanted _all_ children in Edoras – as a matter of fact – in _all_ of Rohan to be taught the Cirth, reading and writing, adding and subtracting and the history of Rohan.

**oooOooo**

_"We cannot live in the shadow of the history and presence of our allies and friends in Gondor. We have to find and further what value and strength is in our history, in our culture, in our people!"_

The love for his people and his country was warm in Éomer's eyes as he told me that, his voice deep and intense with his conviction.

**oooOooo**

"Well, Master Thorkel, with the dwarves in Aglarond and the trade with both Lórien and Eryn Lasgalen picking up, not to mention Gondor and Arnor, more and more people will be required in Rohan who know their letters and their sums. People, who also know something about the history of Arda and about the culture of our allies – to the North and to the South. There is no other way," I explained, careful to keep my voice calm and friendly. And patient. Sometimes the old man and his inability to adjust smoothly to new situations were driving me nuts! But I managed to keep calm. I had learned my lesson where Master Thorkel was concerned. More than once. I even resisted the urge to bite down on my lower lip. Master Thorkel might be old and contrary and set in his ways, but he was not stupid.

"I know this involves a lot of work, that this is quite a challenge. You have already spent a life time labouring for the best interests of Rohan. If you feel that this task is beyond your…"

"No, no," Thorkel interrupted me quickly. "That's not it at all. It is merely… an unusual concept. Very modern. No doubt an idea my lord came across in Gondor." There was a definite scowl on the old scholar's face.

I was hard pressed not to smile. Much like a dragon, Thorkel was susceptible to flattery. Now not to spoil the desired effect by giving anything away…

"As a matter of fact, it isn't. Though I _do_ believe there are some similar plans being discussed in Gondor at the moment. I think originally it was a tradition among the Elves, but I hear that the Halflings in the North also have something like that."

"Then… Rohan would be the first of the southern realms to introduce a school for all of its children?" I could almost _see_ how Thorkel's mind was working, one small wheel turning at a time.

"Yes," I replied simply. "The school at Edoras would set the precedent for all schools to be established in Rohan and Gondor."

(And I guess I _did_ in fact feel the same warm glow at the thought that shone in Éomer's face when we had talked about this idea.)

"And it would fall to the chancellery, the scribes, to set up the… ah… _curriculum_… and to provide the teachers?" Thorkel was torn between delight and disgust. Delight at the influence he would gain. Disgust at having to deal with peasants and the children of peasants.

"At least initially, yes," I would never concede any real power to him or the chancellery as an office. As a matter of fact, I _could_ not. Under-king during the king's absence was not the queen, but the heir to the throne, in this case: the Second Marshal of the Mark, Elfhelm.

I had started studying the history and the laws of the Mark in earnest now, acquiring yet another teacher for that. He was one of the oldest advisers and councillors at court, a lore-master such as could be found only once in all of Rohan, Master Lamont, a man whose calling had become his name. _Lamont_ means "man of law" in Rohirric.

"Oh. Hmmm… well…," Thorkel pursed his withered lips.

That was when I knew that I had him.

"I am sure that you will want to consult over this matter with your colleagues," I said smoothly. "And as a matter of fact, I think it is almost time for dinner. If you will excuse me, Master Thorkel?"

Thorkel accepted my excuses graciously and bowed deeply, but it was obvious that his thoughts were on his new task and how to use it to his advantage…

I had used the afternoon well. I had caught the old scribe off his guard on this day, the day when the new king rode away to the first war after the old king's death. Thorkel had not expected business as usual today of all days.

As I made my way back to the royal apartments there was a small smile inside of me.

_Éomer would like what I had accomplished today._

**oooOooo**

Sorcha already waited for me in my dressing room. Her green-grey eyes were worried. I only nodded. I did not pretend to be brave and cheerful with her. Much as I liked Anrid, Elfhelm's wife who had come to be my third lady-in-waiting while her husband was at court, we were not yet friends. Elaine and I would never be close. But Sorcha was my friend.

"I think the cream-coloured gown would suit best for tonight," Sorcha offered.

It was up to me to decide now if I wanted to talk or not. Even with Sorcha, with my closest friend here at court, there was this invisible barrier that kept me apart from the other women. I was the queen. It was my choice to talk. Not theirs. Today I was grateful for that.

For what was there to say?

_I hope that he will come back to me?_

Sorcha knew that I did. She had done the same barely two years ago, when her husband had gone away to war and danger.

_I am sick with fear that he will not come back?_

Sorcha knew how that felt, too.

And she knew more than that.

Her husband had not returned from the war.

I smiled at her. "I think the cream-coloured gown will be wonderful."

It _was_ wonderful, as a matter of fact. It was one of the gowns of my dowry, made by the fabulous Lady Darla of the Golden Scissors. I had filled out a bit over the winter. I was still a lot thinner than I had ever been on earth, but there was a little more bosom and hip to me, and I looked rather queenly in that gown – or so I felt at least. It would bolster my spirit tonight. And _Eru_ knew that my spirit needed bolstering tonight.

**oooOooo**

As I entered the Golden Hall in the company of Sorcha that night, the first person I saw was Helmichis, still in his best armour, standing unmoving at the door, with Lunt on the other side. I knew that they had had their dinner already and some free time, but it seemed to me as if they hadn't moved at all since the morning's talk about the spring planting.

I also noticed how Sorcha turned her head away quickly, to avoid meeting the gaze of the younger man. _Hmmmm…_

It was a strange feeling to sit at the head of the long table all alone.

I was glad that there were almost only the members of the household present. That made somehow easier for me to keep up my smile and a semblance of conversation.

Elfhelm accompanied Éomer to Mering Stream. Erkenbrand was in Helm's Deep. There had been trouble with some tribes of the Dunlendings. Therefore the dinner party was: Master Thorkel, Master Lamont, Elaine, Gosvintha, Gléowine and the Harper, Lady Anrid and a messenger from Eryn Lasgalen who had arrived in Edoras just in time for supper. He was on his way to the caves of Aglarond. His name was Faunor. He spoke Westron with a strange hissing accent. After such a long time without any elves around it was disconcerting to look into such clear, bright eyes again. His ears were even pointier than those of Legolas.

It fell to me, too, to say grace over the meal. Bema – if you will the patron saint of Rohan – and Eru are invoked at the main meal of the day. It is only a few words of thanksgiving and blessing. More custom than meaning, most of the time.

But tonight I could not take up the spoon at once when I finished the traditional words.

I kept my hands folded under the table. I felt my fingers claw into my hands.

I wanted to ask more than just a blessing for the food set before me.

I wanted to beg.

_Please, let him return, please!_

But no words would come to my mind that could possibly speak aloud.

Finally I picked up the spoon with a shaking hand and started eating. I did not realize what it was that I ate. I never noticed that the other diners had politely waited for me to begin.

But somehow, much as the day had _somehow_ gone by, dinner went by, too.

And somehow, _somehow_, I made my excuses politely and friendly and then made my way back to the royal apartments.

Tonight it was only Sorcha who helped me undress and get ready for bed. Not that I really needed any help as long as there was a ewer with hot water for washing. But it was _custom_. It was just the way things were done. The way things had been done when Théoden's wife had been the queen of Rohan. The way things were done now, if only to show just how happy everyone was to have a young and healthy king and a young and healthy queen again.

Then I was clean and in my nightshift and nightgown, ready for bed, ready for that dark and silent chamber beyond the door of the dressing room.

I could see that Sorcha wanted to say something.

But I knew if she did, if she said something kind and sympathetic now, I would not make it.

And I had to.

And this was only the first night of many.

"Sleep well, Sorcha," I said. "Give little Solas a good-night kiss from me."

**oooOooo**

I was alone in our bedchamber.

I placed the candlestick on my nightstand. Three expensive beeswax candles shed a warm golden light on the pillows and the covers. In the fireplace the fire was burnt down to glowing red ambers. It was warm and comfortable in the room. I inhaled deeply. I realized that the mattress had been freshly stuffed with straw and herbs. There were fresh linen covers on the bed, the covers and the pillows. A faint scent of lavender floated in the air.

Lavender!

Not the musky male scent of Éomer. Not that hint of sweat and horse and spices. Not that heady scent of shared desire. Only the clean scent of warmed linen and a newly made up bed.

The chamber was almost completely silent. The fire was so low that there was no sound of cosily crackling flames and wood slowly breaking into ashes anymore. There was only the sound of straw sighing under the weight of my body and my own irregular breathing.

I blew out the candles with a shivery breath and lay down. I curled up on my side of the bed, a tight ball, drawing the covers closely around me, cuddling into blankets and pillows. I pressed my face into the smooth linen fabric of the pillow. Again there was only the scent of lavender and freshly washed linen to surround me.

I did cry then.

**oooOooo**

**A/N:** Thank you for your kind reviews! And yes, the LJ character meme ("Ask Lothy!" - or any of my other characters is still up and running!)**  
**


	94. Keep Smiling

**94. Keep Smiling**

Éomer had been gone for three weeks now.

Somehow, life without Éomer was settling down into some kind of a routine. Although officially Elfhelm was underking during Éomer's absence and I had no real authority – apart from the writ issued by Éomer to get that school established – Elfhelm insisted that I be part of every meeting and every council that was held in the Golden Hall. At first I thought he was doing this to keep me busy and my threatening depression at bay. But of course that was not the reason. Éomer had been king and back in Edoras only a year and a half when the summons for this new war had arrived from Minas Tirith.

Not all villages were rebuilt that had been destroyed during the War of the Rings yet. The many losses, of husbands, brothers and sons, were still keenly felt among the populace of the Rohirrim. The incursions of the Dunlendings and the orcs had ruined the livelihood of many families in the Westfold, in the Wold and in East-Emnet. After witnessing the failing health of body and mind of the old king and the betrayal of one of the most powerful councillors of the realm, people's trust in the new king was not to be taken for granted.

With the king away in a new war, the Rohirrim needed a queen that was visible. A queen that was visible and strong. A queen they could trust.

And that queen was… _me_.

It was about 6.30 in the morning. Dawn. The queen of Rohan rises with the sun and most often before the sun.

The fire had gone out overnight and the room was icy. The small round glass windows were covered with traceries of hoarfrost. As I exhaled, my breath formed a cloud of mist before me. I shivered, but I did not move.

I stood at the window and stared at the flowery designs the frost had painted there during the night, trying to make out the contours of palace gardens in the waning blue shadows of the night outside. Somehow I had made it through another night. Soon the busy life at the court of Edoras would catch up with me and carry me through another day at the palace of Meduseld.

Another day without Éomer.

The days were in fact not so bad. I was too busy to think or worry much beyond the matters at hand. Most of the time. Not always, of course. There are those moments of quiet in the course of a day. There are those sudden memories of dark eyes and a deep, velvety voice.

I did not even miss Éomer every night. Some nights I was so tired that I was almost asleep before my head hit the pillow. Some nights were simply peaceful and blissfully devoid of thoughts and worries and memories.

But there were other nights, too. Nights that stretched on and on in endless darkness. I missed Éomer as I had never missed anyone or anything in my life ever before. His absence was a constant ache in my stomach.

When I shuddered against the lonely and limited relief of desire my own hand could grant me, late at night, in the silence of our bedroom, it was worst: I saw his eyes in my mind then. Dark with desire and deep with love. I felt his strong, sure hands stroking my body. I tasted his lips and inhaled his heady scent.

When the ripples of my solitary lust dissipated, leaving me breathless and alone, there were tears on my cheeks.

Now I stared at the frost covered windows, trying to summon the strength of will to get going and get on with the day.

_At least it would be warmer in the South…_

**oooOooo**

It was _Aldúya_, what in the calendar of earth was probably Thursday. I had become so used to the Westron expressions for the months and the days of the week that I was beginning to find it difficult to remember the German or English expressions for them sometimes. Perhaps I should write down something in my native language, so I would not forget it completely in the course of the years. But on the other hand, what use was there in keeping alive a language that was known to no one else but me?

It was _Aldúya_, the fourth day of the week, the day of councils and trials in the palace of Meduseld. The day of _geþeaht_, assembly, and _gemot_, council, the _domdæg_, the judgement day of the Rohirrim. Éomer had introduced the custom of having a day of councils and trials in the Hall of Meduseld once a week. Not only for the things that fell to the King's Justice as such, as high treason for example, but also for law cases that could not be solved by the mayors of the villages and the courts of the provinces, or any other matter that needed some final authority to get it resolved.

But before the afternoon would find me in the Golden Hall, together with Master Lamont and Elfhelm, listening to pleas and accusations and trying to wrap my mind around a foreign system of justice, there was the morning to get through. And the morning would probably be spent discussing matters of the household with Mistress Gosvintha. Not that there was much to discuss at the moment, now that the spring planting was organized.

I sighed and turned away from the window.

It was time to get going.

Somehow the day would pass.

**oooOooo**

My footsteps echoed in the silent hallways and corridors that led from the royal apartments to the Golden Hall. It was cold, but warmer than our bedchamber. The price that came with having the luxury of glass windows… The stone floor was smooth and I felt the cold of the stone through my thin leather slippers, but it was not too bad. The walls were covered with many hangings. I could not make out their designs in the flickering light of the torches. But I dreaded the coming of spring, when – as Mistress Gosvintha had told me – all of the of hangings and tapestries of Meduseld would be removed and washed. Hundreds of them! A work of three weeks, I was told and afterwards untold hours of mending and sewing and stitching. I shuddered at the thought.

Then I arrived in the great hallway behind the Golden Hall. From the other end of the hallway I could hear the sound of voices and the muted, comfortable clatter of a working kitchen. I had tried to move into the snug intimacy of the kitchen for my breakfast. But Mistress Gosvintha had given me one long look and asked me in a slightly incredulous voice if I thought this to be really appropriate. Of course it wasn't. On mulling this over, I did realize that it was also not a very good idea politically. I was still a stranger here, even if I had perhaps won the respect of some members of the household. I had to be queen to the lords and ladies of the royal household or I would weaken Éomer's position. I had to be queen for the servants and the guards, to reassure them that order had returned to Rohan, that better times had begun and that these better times would last.

Therefore breakfast and dinner were served in the Golden Hall on most days. Only now and again I allowed myself to enjoy a meal alone or shared only with Sorcha, Elaine and Anrid in the royal quarters. I was only glad that lunch was served wherever I was busy at noon, or even made to go.

A young guard opened the heavy wooden door to the Golden Hall for me. Dark wood carved with faintly Celtic designs gilded thinly with gold that gleamed in the light of the torches.

I walked to the long table in front of the fire place to the right hand side of the hall. By now I knew that the table was there, because the kitchens were on the right hand side of the palace at the back of the Golden Hall. If you want to serve soup in a palace in wintertime and have it arrive at the table still hot, you need to think about every foot of the way from the kitchen to the table.

Although I had risen before dawn, I was the last to arrive at the table. Sometimes I had the feeling that Sorcha and Elaine never slept. They took their jobs as "ladies-in-waiting" very seriously; that is to say, they never went to bed before me, and when I was dressed and ready to go in the morning, they were way ahead of me every single day. Anrid tried to share every moment she could with Elfhelm. Elfhelm seemed to exist easily on four or five hours of sleep. Those indefatigable Rohirric warriors… Thorkel and Lamont seemed to hold it with the rule that old men can exist on a nap caught here and there. Somehow this made me feel sort of out of the loop.

"Good morning," I said and smiled at the members of the royal household gathered around the table. Sorcha smiled at me, a friendly, genuine smile. Helmichis – who would be my silent shadow for the day and was therefore present at the breakfast table, too – smiled at Sorcha's smile. She ignored him. Elaine's smile was forced and Master Thorkel scowled at me. No doubt my arrival had interrupted another argument. It was strange how someone who could be so calm and soothing as a healer as Elaine was, could at the same time in almost all other respects be so difficult a personality to get along with. As a woman of lore, she was naturally involved in the process of setting up the first real school of Edoras. I have to admit that I enjoyed seeing how Master Thorkel for once had met his match. But it made for a tense atmosphere at the table on a semi-regular basis. There was a gleam of merriment in the eyes of both Mistress Gosvintha and Master Lamont. They enjoyed the test of will between the old scribe and the healer, too. The Harper ignored those petty grievances.

"_God morgen, hlæfdige min._" Thorkel preferred to speak Rohirric.

"Good morning, my lady, did you sleep well?" Anrid spoke always Westron with me. No doubt to make things easier for me – and after all, in the days of Thengel and Théoden more Westron than Rohirric was spoken in the Golden Hall; there was a tradition of speaking Westron in the royal household of Rohan. But it did not help me. It made me feel even more like the foreigner I was. Also, I knew that _Éomer_ wanted that more Rohirric was spoken at court.

"Yes, thank you, very well," I smiled and nodded and sat down._ No. I did not sleep well. I slept alone._

"My lady," Master Lamont looked at me over the rim of his tea cup. His eyes were calm and filled with sympathy. "I wanted to remind you that you have to be present in the Golden Hall this afternoon. There are several cases that need the king's judgement. No doubt only petty disputes, but it will be of value to your studies of our laws."

I nodded. "I know. There's a case coming up from the Westfold, isn't it? I heard some talk that it caused quite some unrest there, a few weeks ago."

I had overheard two guards talking about that, but I did not know the details.

"Oh, yes," that was Thorkel. "A nasty business, that. And Lord Grimsir was not able to solve the case." He sniffed at that, leaving no doubt to his opinion of Lord Grimsir. There was a sparkle of amusement in Master Lamont's eyes. As it still happened so often, there was something there, between the Masters, and between Master Thorkel and Lord Grimsir. Something in the past. Perhaps something professional. Perhaps something personal. I could not even begin to guess what it was and if it was important. And there was no one I could ask about it.

Suddenly the width and height of the Golden Hall seemed to close in on me, the weight of the golden roof resting on the massive pillars pressed in on me and the air seemed to stifle my every breath.

"Well, I guess it will be an interesting afternoon then," I commented, carefully trying to keep my tone as non-committal as possible. "I am sure we can reach a just settlement for the matter."

"No doubt," said Master Thorkel. But the way he raised his eyebrow at Master Lamont seemed to indicate that he rather doubted that outcome. The tiny wrinkles at the corners of Master Lamont's eyes crinkled with silent laughter, but he did not say a word or chuckle.

I turned resolutely to Mistress Gosvintha. Was that pity in her eyes? Or was I imagining things?

"Is there any matter of the household that needs my attention this morning?"

"No, _hlæfdige min_, everything is in order," Gosvintha replied.

"Anything else?" I looked at the others.

No. There was nothing that needed the attention of the queen this morning.

"I think I will go and have a look at Mithril then," I said to no one in particular. Mithril was my mainstay. Soft snorts and warm horsehair, to hug and to lean against, strong legs and back to carry me away from my daily troubles, into the wide and free plains of the Mark… But I did not go to Mithril too often. Just as often as was appropriate. It was probably more often than would have been appropriate on earth in similar circumstances, but the Rohirric culture was a very horse-centric culture – and Mithril was a Meara, one of Béma's horses, a royal horse that needed royal attention.

When breakfast was finally over, I was – as befitted my station – the first to rise from the table. I nodded a polite goodbye to the members of the household.

"At three o' clock, Elfhelm?"  
The tall underking inclined his head. "Yes, my lady, and I am afraid that it will take all of the afternoon today."

I would have liked to ask what the problem was that had everyone in such a dither, but somehow I was reluctant to do that. And whom should I have asked?

Instead I simply turned around and went for the doors. Helmichis followed me unobtrusively, a silent, burly shadow with orderly braided blond hair and a long deadly sword.

**oooOooo**

Outside the hall the morning was bright and crisp. Today I did not pause to talk with the guards. I nodded to them and made my way down the stairs and down Horse Lane towards the royal stables. Every now and again I had to stop and smile and nod, when women and girls curtsied their greetings and men and boys bowed deeply.

By the time we reached the stables I felt as if my smile was frozen on my face in a mad grimace. Mithril whickered softly when she saw me and turned in around in her stall to greet me. But she made no move to the door. Apparently she felt it was too cold or too early for a run on the still wintry steppes of Rohan. I clenched my teeth. _How I would have loved a long, hard ride this morning!_

But I had to be fit this afternoon, and presentable; not tired beyond reasoning and all mussed with horse and riding. Therefore I settled for embracing the warm strength of the Meara and sighing into her silky mane.

Finally Mithril began to shift from her fore-feet to her hind-quarters, indicating that she had had quite enough sighing attention of her favourite human at the moment.

I patted her rump. "I know, sweetie, I should do something sensible when I am here!"

But I did allow me another sigh before I picked up the brush and began to curry the beautiful, silvery white coat of the Meara.

Helmichis knew better than to offer to do the work for me by now. He took up position at the back of the open space in the middle of the stable, where he could keep an eye on the entrance and the stalls. He stood at ease, but I knew that his sharp gaze drifted around the stable at regular intervals.

Soon my movements settled into the soothing rhythm I had grown accustomed to. With slow, easy movements I carefully brushed out the thick winter caot of Mithril until it started gleaming like polished silver. I don't know what it was; the warm and friendly presence of my horse, the calming rhythm of brushing her or the comfortable smell of hay and horse, but it did not take long for me to regain some measure of composure. My breathing grew easier and I felt easier, too.

Suddenly the quiet sounds of snuffling horse and swishing brush were interrupted by the sound of someone clearing his throat. I turned around and could not help but feel a hint of anger at seeing Helmichis looking at me, shifting nervously from foot to foot and obviously gathering his nerve to ask me something.

_Not a moment's peace!_

But I smiled at him and asked, "What's the matter? Is anything wrong?"

Helmichis cleared his throat again. "Well, my lady," he began – and stopped.

I frowned at him. He had spoken Westron which was quite unusual for him. Since we had come to Rohan I had almost never heard him use Westron. His accent sounded thicker than it had been back in Dol Amroth. "What is it?"

"Well, my lady," he tried again. "I was wondering, well, I know of course that this is not really appropriate, but there is no one else I could ask…"

I stared at my bodyguard. _No one else he could ask?_

"Ask what?"

"The Lady Sorcha," he said and frowned. "My lady, you know her, you knew her husband, and I was wondering… now that her year of mourning is more than over… do you think – I know that she is really far above me – but I was wondering, do you think – do you think if she, the Lady Sorcha, do you think that perhaps she – she would, she would accept my suit?"

I stared at my bodyguard and remembered only just in time not to let my mouth drop open.

Nevertheless there was no reply I could think of at once. It was obviously my turn to clear my throat in that awkward manner that implies "I have really no idea what to say to that."

Finally I said, "I did not really know her husband. I saw him only once, from afar, when he said goodbye to his wife for the last time."

Helmichis gulped and exhaled heavily. "And do you think…"

I stared at Helmichis and shrugged helplessly. I had noticed the way the young man tried to catch the older woman's eye. I had noticed the way she looked away quickly. Perhaps a little too quickly to be genuinely disinterested? I just had no idea!

And how to go about this appropriately? I was about the last person to ask how the bodyguard of the queen of Rohan – who was half-Rohirric and half-Gondorian by birth – should court a Gondorian widow who was the lady-in-waiting of the said queen of Rohan!

I had barely made it to and through my own betrothal!

Finally I tried a reassuring smile. "I am sorry, Helmichis, I have really no idea. But I will keep it in mind and try to find out how Sorcha feels about remarrying and …_er_… about you? Would that help?"

Helmichis nodded wordlessly. He looked as if he wanted to blush and disappear into thin air from embarrassment, but could do neither. "Thank you, my lady," he murmured finally. Then he inhaled deeply and stood tall, straight-backed and unmoving, staring ahead with almost glassy eyes – the imperturbable guard-routine.

I turned back to grooming Mithril.

But this time the soothing routine did not help me much.

My thoughts travelled back to Tarnost, almost two years ago… _dark days… a young Gondorian soldier kissing his plump, red-haired wife and his little, blonde daughter goodbye… never to return. Never to return…_

Now I was the one to wait for my husband's return – from war and danger.

I realized that I had been brushing the same spot over and over again. My arm felt heavy as lead, but light compared to my heart. I lowered the brush and turned away from Mithril. I cleaned the brush carefully and put it away.

"It is time, my lady," Helmichis reminded me in a low voice. "You will need some time for… _er…_ getting ready for the council…"

Getting ready: getting rid of at least some of the horse smell and into some fancy, queenly robes.

"Thank you, Helmichis."

The way back to the Golden Hall seemed long and wearying.

**oooOooo**

I was washed and dressed and as ready as I could be. A long dress, heavy, dark moss green velvet with borders in a light brown brocade embroidered in gold. A regal gown, perfect for trials and councils. My hair had been braided into a crown and topped off with a golden circlet. Yes, queens do get to wear such things. But they are not really comfortable. You cannot shake your head suddenly, because that could dislodge the circlet. And they tend to be heavy and give you a headache when you really need your head clear.

I walked back to the Golden Hall slowly. I had to be careful not to step on the hem of that dress. It had been very expensive and I did not want to increase Sorcha's workload unnecessarily yet again. I was also apprehensive about sitting in on the trials and councils, though I really wanted to. This being queen was my _job_ now. I wanted to be good at my job. Justice, knowing the laws of the land were an important part of that job in my opinion. But although my knowledge of the Rohirric and of the Sindarin, of the tengwar and the Cirth had improved enormously, there were still too many things I did not know. Also, Rohirric law was (apart from the deed that had made Rohan an independent country and the oath of Eorl) almost entirely case law, faintly similar to Common Law – or what I imagined that Common Law might have been in the middle ages. It was a system of law and justice that I was almost entirely unfamiliar with.

I tried to comfort myself with the thought that I was only sitting in on the proceedings, talking things over with Master Lamont, while Elfhelm made the decisions. I would probably never have to say anything out loud.

But my heart was beating faster nevertheless as the doors of the Golden Hall were opened for me.

**oooOooo**

Clarions sounded at my entrance and the crowd that had gathered in the Golden Hall curtsied and bowed to me in a great rustle of skirts and cloaks. Once again I had completely forgotten about formalities. My knees felt wobbly as I made my way to the throne-like chair on the dais.

I was glad to sit down.

Master Lamont stood at my side on the dais, as one of the most high-ranking councillors at court. Helmichis and Rhawion stood to the left and the right of the dais, spears in their hands.

Éomer's throne was empty. But an elaborately carved chair had been placed right in front of the dais where Elfhelm was seated now. A few feet to his right his scribe had set up with a desk and a stool to make out any necessary decree right on the spot.

A crowd of applicants and onlookers had gathered on both sides of the Golden Hall, held back by guards that were placed around the crowd in regular intervals. In spite of the crowd it was almost silent in the hall. There was a faint noise of rustling fabrics, a cough now and then, the sound of wind outside, perhaps an agitated whisper every once in a while, but that was it.

The air was thick with the smell of bodies and sheep wool and that hint of horse that seems to be everywhere in Rohan.

The first three cases were easy. Petty problems that only made their way to the king's court because these problems originated from the king's lands and thus fell under royal jurisdiction.

I began to relax a little.

Then the case from the Westfold was called.

Guards led two older Rohirric men to the front. Both were in shackles. They had darker hair than the people of Edoras and a slightly foreign cast to their features. They also looked extremely angry. Behind them another set of guards led a small boy forwards. The boy seemed to be about Tally's age and he was obviously not a Rohirrim. He was brown haired and brown skinned and sturdy, rather than tall and slender of build.

_What was this all about?_

Next a captain of the Éored stepped forward, dressed in the colours of the Westfold.

He would apparently present the case.

When he spoke, he spoke Rohirric, a quick, heavily accented Rohirric that I had real trouble understanding. I caught only about every third word he was saying. My head was starting to hurt. It was something about horses that had been stolen…

"Well, my lady, what do you think of it?" Master Lamont turned to me inquiringly.

I raised my eyebrows and rubbed my forehead. "Could you please repeat that for me? That was a little quick."

It hurt that I was still not able to understand Rohirric the way I should. But to give any opinion on the case I had to have the facts straight; even if my opinion counted for nothing against the underking's authority.

Lamont inclined his head. His expression was unreadable.

"Asgaut, that is the smaller man, and his neighbour, Guttorm, have apparently had some difficulties and arguments over the years on a regular basis. What happened now is that Asgaut stole two horses from Guttorm and sold them to one Ata who lived in the next village.

This Ata was not a Rohirrim, but of Dunlending origin. He did not know that the horses were stolen. He paid the price Asgaut asked and took them home. And then. Then he –"Lamont gulped.

"He – he – slaughtered the horses and made –" Lamont gulped again.

"…made sausages and smoked meats of them."

Lamont looked as if he was going to be sick.

I have to admit that for a moment a feeling of nausea almost turned my own stomach as a thought of _Mithril!_ flashed through my mind. But at the same time another thought stirred at the back of my mind.

Somehow this story sounded strangely familiar!

_A stolen animal… A buyer in good faith… the question of compensation…_

Suddenly there was an almost inappropriate feeling of happiness in my heart.

I knew that case!

A very, very similar situation had become one of the most famous civil law cases in Germany! One of those cases that all students have to know about!

The so called "Jungbullenfall", "the bull-calves case", BGH Z… I even remembered the reference for the case! It was BGH Z 55, 176ff.

Finally here was a case to which I could really contribute something!

I could offer a real opinion on how to find a solution about the question of who had become the owner of the horses and why, and on how and why compensation could be demanded!

I considered the matter carefully for a moment, making sure that I would be able to explain my train of thought properly.

When I turned to Lamont again, it was difficult for me to suppress a smile.

Finally the day was looking up!

"And now the original owner demands compensation from that Ata? Is that right? I think I have an idea or two how this situation could be resolved!"

For a moment Lamont stared at me.

Then he licked is lips and shook his head.

"No, my lady," he said slowly. "That is actually not the problem at all. The problem is that when Asgaut heard what had happened to the horses, he went to Guttorm and said that he was very sorry about it all and had not meant for that to happen. Both were naturally shocked at what Ata had done. They talked about what could be done to remedy the situation. Obviously there was a copious amount of alcohol involved and they egged each other on. But what happened was that they went over to the other village and there they killed Ata, his wife and his children. The only one they left alive is that boy over there."

I stared at Lamont.

Then I looked at the two Rohirrim who were looking at me with stubborn, angry expressions on their faces, expressions of righteous wrath. Behind them the little boy cowered on the floor, a dazed and bewildered expression on his small grubby face.

A foreigner had bought stolen horses in good faith and used them to feed his family… and to judge from the rather prominent ribs that peeked out between the child's rags, it had been hunger and not ignorance of their neighbours' culture that had made Ata and his family kill and eat the horses.

I sat and stared. At the men, at the boy.

From somewhere far away I heard the voice of Elfhelm, asking questions of Asgaut and Guttorm. I felt thoroughly sickened.

These were my people.

This was my country.

And I felt all alone and a stranger here. _A stranger in a strange land..._

But I could not smile at that quote that suddenly popped into my brain.

* * *

**A/N: **And this is how the famous "Jungbullenfall" did **not** make it into Rohirric law. 

**oooOooo**

**More A/N: **Hey, you folks out there! I know you are there! How about you drop me a line and tell me what you think about the progress of the story! Are you still interested? Is Lothy's angst in character?


	95. Nénimë, Súlimë, Víressë

**A/N: **Thank you for your nice and helpful reviews (all of you! it was so nice to see some of you again!). And the chapters were actually _meant_ to drag… I was trying to create a tedious, paralyzing, depressing atmosphere (and I guess I succeeded there, lol; further explanation to the inner workings of the story and why the pacing has changed can be found on my Live Journal for anyone who is interested!). So… no assassins in this chapter but be sure to leave me a note, telling me what you think!

**oooOooo**

**95. Nénimë, Súlimë, Víressë**

"You are only **fining** them?" I screamed at Elfhelm. "They killed **five** innocent persons and you are only **_fining_** them to pay for the boy's upkeep until he can support himself?"

My voice rose shrilly at the end of the sentence. There were tears of horror and anger in my eyes.

I don't know how I managed to remain calm until we reached the study just behind the Golden Hall. Somehow. But now there was no way for me to remain quiet and composed.

Elfhelm stared at me in surprise. Master Lamont's eyebrows rose so high on his forehead that they almost touched his receding hairline.

"And you are going to send that boy away to live with **_them_**?"

"Are you completely out of your fff… mind?" I brought my hands down on the dark wood of the desk with a smack that reverberated through my arms up to my shoulders. I never noticed the pain of the impact. "Those morons will **kill** the boy as soon as they get the chance!"

I gasped for breath. I swallowed hard. When I continued, I aimed for a tone of final authority.

"I am **not** going to stand for that. You are **not** going to let them get away with that. And furthermore, you are **not** going to send the boy back to them."

Elfhelm gaped at me. His eyes held the dazed expression of someone who has just seen a human being turn into a slimy green alien right in front of him. Elaine watched the scene from the background. She seemed to smile.

I waited for anyone to say anything. The silence lengthened. I glared at Elfhelm.

The sudden noise of someone clearing his throat made me turn around. Master Lamont. He did not smile.

"My lady, our laws do not provide for any other punishment than a fine. The sum of the fine is determined on the basis of the damages inflicted. The boy's family were not Rohirrim. They were only Dunlendings. Enemies of our people. Enemies of long standing I might add. It is actually questionable if Rohirric law is applicable in this case at all. Lord Grimsir could have simply ignored the matter. In fact, he probably should have. The horses of Rohan were given to us by Bema himself. To kill a horse is a deed equal to the killing of a person. To kill them for meat and sell the produce…"

Lamont looked quite sick at the thought. "That is so foul and so vile… I don't have the words for such a crime! But as in this case one mischief led to another and as the peace established between the Dunlending tribes and Rohan is still far from secure I think that Lord Elfhelm's verdict will be accepted. People ought to recognize the political reasoning behind it, even if they will not like it. But my lady, **you** have to realize that to even impose a _fine_ on these scoundrels – I will admit they are that – but you **have** to realize that this is a daring, custom-defying departure from every precedent I can recall from many a _domdæg_ I remember. And if they are fined to pay damages to this boy in order to support him until he comes of age, then it is only just and equitable that they take him and profit from whatever work he can be used for, the way any member of any household has to contribute to the family's upkeep."

I stared at Master Lamont. _Mischief? **"Only"** Dunlendings?_

I felt myself shaking my head slowly. An icy lump settled in the pit of my stomach. My horror and anger subsided as I realized what this situation could mean for me.

There was nothing I could do about the Rohirric laws and about the precedents Master Lamont was quoting at me now.

But I could not just stand back and watch as they sent the boy back with these… these…

There was a disbelieving laughter welling up inside of me at the thought of dubbing those men mere _"scoundrels"_, when they had almost wiped out a family. There was no doubt in my mind that the boy would not survive for long if he was sent back to live with the murderers of his parents and siblings. If the fine was made out to be paid to the crown in case that something happened to the boy, they might make sure that he lived to see his fifteenth year, but I was sure that his life would be an endless misery with those… **_murderers_**.

I could do nothing about the laws.

But I could determine just how much authority I held as the queen of Rohan.

A test of power come much too soon.

A test of power that would likely cost a life if my authority was not enough, if my voice counted for nothing.

I swallowed and exhaled deeply. _Careful now. Keep your head, Lothy._

"But the boy's family lived in a Rohirric village, didn't they? They lived peacefully among the Rohirrim? They lived _as_ Rohirrim, didn't they?"

Elfhelm nodded. "They were tinkers as far as I know; they lived on the fringe of that village, travelling back and forth between their home and the villages and homesteads all around."

He gave me a long look. I could not even guess what he was thinking. The muscles of his face were tense. His grey eyes dark and cool. After a moment of silence the second Marshal of the Mark and underking to Éomer added, "A hard life."

I barely bit back a sigh of relief. _If I was not mistaken, Elfhelm had just offered me a chance… I must not waste it!_

I turned to Master Lamont again. "What would happen if the boy's family was Rohirric?"

Master Lamont frowned at me. But he answered smoothly and calmly. "There are several remedies provided by our law for that case. Probably all their possessions would fall to the boy and they and their families would be banished from Rohan."

_But they were only Dunlendings… living on the edge of the village…_

"But the boy's family was not Rohirric," Lamont added. "They were Dunlendings. They belonged to a people who have killed many Rohirrim during the War of the Rings and throughout the centuries before that. A people, who have again and again attacked Rohan, robbed and looted our villages and homesteads, raped our women and killed our children. Not to mention killing, stealing and eating our horses."

_One ill turn deserves another…_

"But not this time," I said, my throat constricting. _What a mess!_ How should peace and a friendly co-existence ever grow out of this history of war and death and hatred?

Lamont, however, gave me a thoughtful look. Suddenly I realized that – despite his words – the old lore- and law-master was not happy with this case. Even though he was caught up in a tangled web of bitter histories and deeply ingrained cultural taboos, he did not like the way this case had to be solved according to the legal remedies he knew of.

I drew another shaky breath. I felt like a tight-rope acrobat. _Stray but a little, and you will fall…_

Reasonable. Be reasonable. _Only with reason, never with anger, can justice be achieved…_

"Is there a possibility that the boy has other relatives among the Dunlendings of that area? Relatives that would give him a home? Or relatives that might have revenge on their minds now?" I asked.

It was Elfhelm who answered. Apparently he had questioned the accused and the captain who had brought them to court thoroughly. "No. We are very lucky. That family was apparently at odds with their own people, or the situation could easily get out of hand. But Lord Grimsir did not want to take any risks, so he sent the case to Edoras."

The case. _And the boy…_

An idea struck.

"Then it might be wiser to keep the boy here, wouldn't it? Just to make sure that the situation does not escalate, if some of the Dunlendings should suddenly discover their sympathies for tinkers?"

_And because **I** won't send the boy home with those murderers no matter what._

For a long, long moment the room was silent. I could almost feel the air thickening with thoughts…

Elfhelm tapped his upper lip with the long and slender index finger of his left hand. His right was loosely curled around the hilt of his sword.

"I think you are right, my lady," the underking said finally. "If I am not mistaken this is also what Lord Grimsir had in mind when he sent those scoundrels and the boy to Edoras."

Much as I disliked the Lord Grimsir, he was a good political thinker; I had to grant him that. But then, his brother, Gríma, had also been exceedingly clever and devious in his ploys… Obviously a trait that ran deep in that family.

"I suggest that the boy be kept here at the palace," I said in a firm voice. "Those… _scoundrels_ may pay a certain sum annually for the boy's upkeep and a final sum when he comes of age. And I want the boy to go to school – as soon as that school is up and running."

It was clear that I did not _"suggest"_ anything. I was telling them what I wanted. The question was only if my authority was good enough to get me what I wanted.

Again the silence lengthened. The cold feeling in my stomach intensified.

"Well?" I asked.

Someone at the back of the room cleared his throat. Suddenly Helmichis stepped forward and bowed deeply. I had not even noticed that he was in the room.

"My lady," he bowed again. "My lords, I am at the moment without a page. If it is agreeable with you, I would take the boy on. I would see to it that he goes to that _school_. And taking care of my weapons and armour, he may learn a good trade of it, becoming a tanner or a smith even."

For a moment Elfhelm stared at the young second-in-command of the queen's guard, obviously taken aback.

I held my breath.

I was deeply touched and surprised by Helmichis' offer to take on the boy. But I saw at once what a gigantic leap of faith this offer asked the underking to take. To have a _Dunlending_ boy as a page of the queen's favourite bodyguard!

I counted my heavy heartbeats.

If Elfhelm was not willing to trust Helmichis in this, what other option could I come up with on the spur of the moment?

Elfhelm looked the burly young warrior up and down, scrutinizing him. Something in the way Elfhelm held himself suddenly changed. It was a subtle change, almost unnoticeable. But there was no doubt in my mind that the Second Marshal of the Mark liked and respected the young half-Rohirrim. Finally their eyes met and Elfhelm held Helmichis' gaze for a long moment.

"Very well," Elfhelm said at last.

Helmichis bowed and faded back to his customary position at the door again.

"My lady, do you agree to this solution?"

I realized that Elfhelm was making a point in _asking_ me. He was asserting and confirming my authority as a queen. My knees went weak. I felt giddy with relief.

"Yes, I do, thank you," I replied. _Some kind of impressive last line would come in handy now_, I thought. But when nothing came to mind, I stayed silent and simply inclined my head graciously.

**oooOooo**

We returned to the Golden Hall and Elfhelm announced the verdict of the crown. The verdict was: both men had to pay certain sums of money to the royal treasury every year until the boy's fifteenth birthday and a final sum upon that date so that he could set up a trade or shop of his own. And the boy would remain here at the palace in Edoras.

Elfhelm did not say where the boy would stay or why, he only elaborated on what could be considered reasonable behaviour in a case such as theirs and what couldn't – murdering five persons being one of the things that could not be considered reasonable. The men scowled, but kept silent.

Then the herald called for the next case and the men were led away. The boy remained where he was, looking beyond confused, more like frightened to death, especially when Helmichis approached him. I turned around to find that Lunt had taken Helmichis' place on my right. I nodded to Rhawion who was still at my left in acknowledgement of the alteration. The captain of my guard answered with a polite half-bow.

The rest of the afternoon was uneventful and passed quickly.

Finally the council was over and the Golden Hall was empty. Elfhelm excused himself. There were still documents to go through and messages to prepare. Helmichis had not yet returned from getting the boy settled down. Elaine was there, though, busy with elaborate embroidery in the corner. Anrid kept her company. Sorcha was probably in the kitchen with Gosvintha and Solas. An afternoon of trials was no place for a little girl.

"I need a little fresh air and quiet," I announced and made for the front doors of the Hall.

Rhawion and Lunt followed me outside, politely keeping back a few paces.

As it was only the very beginning of spring the light of day still waned quickly. When the bells of Edoras tolled for the sixth hour of the afternoon, the sun was already gone from the sky. The sky was a cloudless, deep indigo. The air was almost icy. The houses and roads of Edoras below the terrace seemed to dissolve into soft blue shadows, a cool _sfumato_ of an early evening in _Nénimë_.

I inhaled deeply. The air was so cold and crisp that it almost hurt in my lungs. From somewhere below the sound of laughter drifted up to me. For the first time in days I could see again just how beautiful Edoras was, how beautiful the surrounding country was. White mists swirled over the River Snowbourne. Between the eastern edge of the mountains and the still bare fields of the Eastfold the first stars glittered silvery bright.

_I hope you approve of what I have done today, my love,_ I whispered into the cool twilight. _And I hope you are well and that you return to me soon._

But there was no answer, of course. Only the soft sigh of the wind sweeping down from the glaciers of the Ered Nimrais. I shivered suddenly and turned back to the Golden Hall.

**oooOooo**

"Ach du gottverdammte Scheiße," I muttered and sucked on my hurting thumb. It was _Súlimë_ and I was speaking a lot of German lately. The sun was bright in a periwinkle-blue sky of spring. The birds were cheering on my failing attempts to commit suicide with an embroidery needle.

It was _Súlimë_ and the tapestries and hangings of the Golden Hall were washed and dried and now they had to be mended. Every woman of the palace was occupied with that task and there were even a few boys busy with threads and needles.

It was _Súlimë_ and I was slowly running out of curses and of unpierced skin.

"Kruzitürkenhundsverrecknochamal!"

I felt so infuriated by the piece of obnoxious fabric in my hands that I was close to throwing it down, trampling all over it and screaming bloody murder with my frustration. And it was only simple straight stitches. At the back of the tapestries. And hangings. And stuff. To keep the various borders from fraying. Simple straight stitches. The only thing I had to watch was that the stitches had to stay on the backside of the tapestries, so that they were invisible on the front. Idiot's work. _Tally_ was better at it than I was. I could not quite suppress some grumbling and hissing. Not that it helped. I tried again to get needle and thread to cooperate on the backside of Eorl the young.

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

Suddenly a sweet, bright voice interrupted my fuming.

"Coosie – tuki – hussa – ma?"

I raised my head from the fabric that was putting up a valiant battle in my lap (and winning it, too, at least at the moment…).

Solas, who kept us company this afternoon, stood in front of me. Her small face showed an expression of utter fascination.

"Coosietukihussama?" Solas repeated with her high, little girl's lisp.

Sorcha put down the tapestry she was mending in various kinds of tiny, orderly stitches – a complicated affair that showed many white ships before a gigantic wave – and raised a red eyebrow at me.

"Lothy, I have no idea why you think you have to learn embroidery when it is so painfully obvious that –"

"That I am all thumbs at it? And left ones at that?" I interrupted my friend and gave her a broad grin. What else could I do, seeing that this was nothing but the truth?

Sorcha, by now recognized as the best seamstress in the palace, had relaxed into her new role as my lady-in-waiting and her new home in the palace of Meduseld – if not into Helmichis' subtle attempts to catch her attention.

Now she smiled back at me. "You know, Lothy, only because you are the queen you don't have to do everything that we others do. I think it is commendable how you try to take on every task that needs doing. But with this I think you carry things a bit far. And I don't even want to know what those words mean that my daughter keeps picking up from you these days."

Right on cue Solas piped up again, changing from simply repeating her version of my rather colourful German expletive to a childish sing-song to the melody of a Rohirric nursery rhyme.

"Coosie – tuki – hussa – ma, coosie – hussa – tuki – ma, tuki – coosie – hussa – ma!"

I couldn't help grinning. Elaine was obviously biting her tongue in an effort not to laugh out loud and the corners of Gosvintha's eyes crinkled up with silent laughter. Only Anrid did not react to the general hilarity but smiled a sweet dreamy smile away into the sunshine. She was three months pregnant and nothing seemed to be able to dampen her smile these days.

Sorcha reached for her daughter and silenced her by simply holding her hand over the little girl's mouth and tickling her. With muffled laughter and much squirming the song subsided.

"Why don't you help Solas with her letters, my lady? That would spare your poor thumbs – and the tapestries – some pain."

I looked at the tapestry in my lap. I looked at the many red and painful spots on my fingers where I had inadvertently nicked my skin. I looked at little Solas' sunny smile. With a heartfelt sigh of relief I dumped the tapestry I had been working on the heap of hangings that had yet to be mended. Then I held my hand out to Solas.

"How about we go and do some real work, sweetie?"

**oooOooo**

_Víressë_ had turned Rohan into a living and breathing emerald.

Everything seemed to be green. The slopes of the Ered Nimrais were a dark, vibrant spruce-green, liberally sprinkled with the almost chartreuse colour of budding larch trees. The wide plains of Rohan were tinged in aeneous and emerald where fields of grain and corn sprouted their new growth. But to me the real miracle were the more sombre hues of green that flowed in waves upon waves of lush reseda and sage over the endless grasslands of the Emnet.

It was simply and breathtakingly _beautiful_.

Something had changed in the long weeks since my confrontation with Elfhelm and Lamont at that unfortunate trial. I was still alone. I still missed Éomer. Every hour, every day, and most of all, every long, lonely night. But somehow I could see the beauty in my world again. I could laugh with my friends. I could enjoy this spring. Those verdant greens!

And the birds!

In winter and during the dark days of early spring the country around Edoras had almost echoed with frozen silence. Now it echoed with the myriad voices of a many feathered choir. I was woken every day way before dawn by an almost deafening concert of birdsong.

In the evenings every roof of Edoras seemed to be occupied by the Rohirric variety of blackbirds. And every one of those small black birds seemed to be set on singing his heart out in an effort to greet this spring appropriately. This spring: the spring of the fourth age of the world, indeed the first year of the fourth age.

Today was one of the nicest evenings yet.

The sun was warm and the air was soft with spring – that humid fragrance of new growth, new life. The sky was wide with this clear, light blue of springtime, a cerulean sky!

Through the open windows of our bedchamber I could see a large blackbird perched on the topmost branch of an apple tree that was about to burst into bloom. The blackbird was doing its best to encourage the blossoms with his whole-hearted ode to springtime. For a moment I hesitated in front of the open window. It was as if I could literally _watch_ the blossoms opening.

Tonight I was a very selfish queen.

I had my meal sent up to the royal apartments. I had eaten alone, too, luxuriating in my lonesomeness for a change. And now I would use the evening sunlight to read and reread my letters.

Two days ago the last letter had arrived.

A hopeful letter!

The border of Harondor was safe.

Harad was prepared to resume negotiations.

Éomer sent word that with a little bit of luck he might be able to return to Edoras in a few weeks' time.

Sun and spring and birdsong and _hope_!

My heart was giddy with hope.

I got out the wooden box where I kept my letters. It was a very beautiful box, a warm reddish wood that was finely carved with Rohirric designs. I sat down on the bed and hugged the box to me. The freshened straw of the mattress rustled under my weight.

I opened the box.

There were letters of almost every week we had been parted. Short letters and long letters. Carefully written letters that said just how bad the situation was by _not_ saying anything at all. Cheerful letters that told me of a sweetly plump Éowyn and the gorgeous twin girls of Arwen.

Letters filled with longing.

One or two letters that even held the words _"I love you"_.

All of the letters showed the distance they had travelled to reach me. More than four hundred miles as the crow flies. All the letters showed the wear and tear of being touched and read every day, or at least every other day. And a number of them sported smudges, where tears had been wiped at with a sleeve, clumsily and unsuccessfully.

_If only he would return home to me soon…and well…_

I took out the last letter and carefully spread it open on my pillow.

_"My dear Lothíriel,"_ the letter began.

All at once the evening sunshine, the fragrance of spring and the sweet song of the blackbird in the apple tree were forgotten. My world consisted of curling letters in black ink on cream coloured parchment and an echo of a dark, deep voice inside my mind.

_"My dear Lothíriel…"_

Suddenly the door of the bedchamber opened with a BANG that had me swallowing my heart with fright.

I whipped around with my heart pounding and an angry rebuke at the disturbance on my lips.

Suddenly I found myself in a tight embrace, pressed against a broad chest, my face showered with kisses, my breath taken with a spicy scent of man and horse and leather. Dun and golden hair tickled my nose, dark eyes mere inches away from my own, a deep, dark voice, almost breaking, with emotions spilling over in kisses and tears…

"I am afraid I am a very bad king and commander, my love," Éomer whispered, his hands roaming hungrily over my body. "As soon as we crossed the border at Mering Stream I took my guard and set off, at break-your-neck speed, with only one thought on my mind…"

He buried his face against my neck, kissing and sucking as if he was about to starve to death and I the only food to nourish him.

"Éomer?" My voice sounded breathless and thin. It seemed to come from far away, a hoarse, incredulous whisper.

_"Éomer?"_

My hands found his face. His skin was hot. My fingers traced his high forehead, strong cheekbones, the silky fur of his beard and down to his stubborn chin. At the same time I tried to see every part of his body, to make sure that it was really him and that he was alright, that he was not hurt, that he was real, that he was back, that he was in one piece and that…

"Yes, my love," he answered. His voice was shaky. There were _tears_ in his eyes!

"Yes, my love," he repeated. "I am back."

I broke into tears.

**oooOooo**

**A/N: **I hope you like that:-)


	96. A Paean of Joy

**A/N: **Thank you again for your many kind and encouraging comments, thank you especially for your helpful and constructive criticism. This really helps me keep my story on track.

**Eyes of sky: **You get the Review Oscar for the **shortest review ever**: "ah"

_But that "ah" is very much appreciated!;-)_

**oooOooo**

The Rohirric song of this chapter is based upon the "The Exeter Book", as quoted by Tolkien in one of his letters (letter no. 54).

**oooOooo**

**A/N: **R-rated chapter! If you don't want to read how babies are made, skip this chapter!

**oooOooo**

**96. A Paean of Joy**

It was just after dinner the day following Éomer's unexpected return. I pushed the plate away from me with a sigh. I was replete. Éomer leaned back in his throne-like chair with a look of supreme content on his face that was only in part due to the admittedly excellent food. Somehow we had managed to stay in our room and in bed for most of the day – we had appeared only just in time for dinner. Somehow I managed to ignore the knowing looks of Anrid, Elfhelm, Sorcha and Elaine. It helped that I was too hungry to care much for exactly what the other members of the royal household thought about what Éomer and I had been doing all day. Especially since they would be right with exactly what they thought. Especially since now that the needs of my body in ways of food had been met, I was eager to return to our bedchamber and to continue there just what the other members of the royal household probably thought we had been doing all day.

I tried to catch Éomer's eyes to silently convey the idea to him that I wanted to return to our rooms. Our eyes met and I felt my stomach somersault with happiness and desire. How I had missed to see his eyes light up with those amber flecks when he was happy! How I had missed that slow, suggestive smile!

I drew a shivery breath. His eyes, his smile… _and other things…_ Only now that he was back, I realized just how much I had missed him. _All of him._

I realized that I was being watched and quickly lowered my head. Well, watch was perhaps the wrong expression. Somehow the Harper had not missed our silent exchange. The Harper never seemed to miss anything. Blind though he was, it was uncanny just how he seemed to feel the slightest shifting of the atmosphere in any room, between any persons. He was almost like an elf that way. Now he nodded to me with a hint of a smile on his ravaged visage. Normally he asked if anyone desired a specific song after dinner. Tonight he would not ask.

Out of the corners of my eyes I saw how Éomer hid a grin behind his mug of ale. Elfhelm did not even try to hide his grin. But from the faint glow on Anrid's cheeks I was inclined to say that he should be careful with any joke – because that joke could all too easily be turned on him. I tried not to look at Sorcha. Things between her and Helmichis had not moved an inch. And I knew that it must be hard on her to see me happily reunited with my husband.

Finally Éomer called the end of dinner and rose from the table. I followed suit. Everybody else were on their feet at once, too, and bowing and curtsying to us. It was hard to keep from impatiently tugging at Éomer's tunic. His hand briefly sought mine and squeezed it. Just a moment of contact, but my heart sped up and things low in my body tightened with need for him.

But then he let go off me and turned towards the great doors of the Golden Hall. I wanted to moan with frustration. What was the man up to now?

I had no choice but to follow him. The guards inside the hall were Lunt and Njall tonight. They bowed to their king and queen and swiftly opened the doors for us. Outside Wídfara and Helmichis stood at the ready, the heads of their spears glinting in the evening sun. They, too, bowed respectfully to us. On the low wooden bench that ran along the length of the hall I saw Helmichis' shy brown shadow, the boy Danso. The boy was still skinny and easily frightened. He followed Helmichis everywhere and watched his every move with his chocolate-brown eyes filled with profound admiration. At least Danso was decidedly of the opinion that Helmichis had hung the moon and kept the sun revolving.

I had told Éomer about Danso's case in a letter and we had talked about it this morning. Éomer had kissed me and assured me that I had done well. Then he had sighed deeply. "If only I could really trust Grimsir. He acted very prudently in that case…"

But Éomer could not trust the Lord of the Westfold. Gríma Wormtongue's shadow was long and dark. Now Éomer approached Helmichis and motioned to my guard to stand at ease.

Helmichis bowed again. "My lord."

Éomer nodded his approval. "You have guarded my wife well, when I was away. I thank you, Helmichis of Dol Amroth. It is good to know that the second in command of my queen's guard is such a reliable warrior as you are. My wife tells me that you have taken on the Dunlending boy that was involved in that problem a few weeks back?"

Helmichis inclined his head. "Yes, my lord."

Éomer looked Helmichis in the eye. Helmichis was an inch taller than Éomer and burlier in build. Nevertheless Éomer seemed… I don't know quite how to put it… there was an air of command, of authority to every inch of Éomer, a presence, a hint of danger that was not there in my calm guard. The king and the guard of the queen. There was no need to ask who was who, even with the king in an unassuming brown tunic and the guard in splendid armour.

"That was kindly done, captain," Éomer said. "Could I speak to the boy? Is he close by?"

My heart skipped a beat. I would place any bet that Éomer had noticed the cowering boy in the corner the moment he left the hall. _That_ was why Éomer had come out on the terrace tonight!

"Yes, my lord," Helmichis replied. "I will call him for you. But he is not yet quite firm in the courtly manners, my lord."

"Never mind, Helmichis. Just call him for me, please," Éomer bid the soldier.

Helmichis nodded and turned to the hall. "Danso! Come here! And don't be afraid!"

Danso slowly moved from the bench to his guardian. It was obvious that he was very much afraid. But he obeyed Helmichis without hesitation. I could see that Éomer liked that. Danso came to stand next to Helmichis, trying to move as closely to the big man as he could. Helmichis frowned at that and nudged the boy roughly into a bow, but there was no cruelty in his grip or in his gaze, just a mixture of impatience and pity. "Bow, Danso. What did I tell you? We bow to the lords and the ladies."

Helmichis turned back to Éomer. "This is Danso, my lord."

Éomer looked Danso up and down. The Dunlending boy was too small for his age and still skinny. His skin was brown and his hair, too, and despite Gosvintha's best efforts it was still kinky and rough. His eyes were dark like chocolate. His nose and chin were broad, his cheekbones flat. There was no doubt that he was not a Rohirrim, nor a Gondorian. His lower lip was trembling. But he stood his ground, frightened though he was.

I could see how Éomer's eyes darkened with some memory or thought that pained him. But he took care to keep his face relaxed and friendly.

Then Éomer slowly knelt down on one knee to be at the level of the boy's eyes.

"I could not be here earlier to welcome you to Edoras, Danso. But now I am. And I welcome you to Edoras. You will have to stay here until you are grown and of age. This may seem harsh to you. But it is best. For you and for your people. I hope that you will soon feel at home here. Know that I regret deeply the circumstances that led to you being here. But if you obey your guardian and apply yourself, some good may come of it yet and you will be able to shape a better life for yourself and for both our peoples when you are grown. _Wes ðu hal_, Danso."

For a moment Danso only gaped at Éomer, no doubt barely able to follow that speech. But then, to my immense surprise, the boy bowed to Éomer without having to be prodded to do it by Helmichis. With a voice that was astonishingly deep and hoarse for such a young boy, Danso replied in thickly accented Rohirric, _"Hal wes þu, hlaford min."_

Éomer rose to his feet with a hint of a smile on his face. Around me I heard the noise of many breaths being forcibly exhaled. My heart beat heavily in my chest and my throat constricted with the sudden urge to cry.

_What a gesture!_

_The King of Rohan **kneels** in front a Dunlending boy!_

I pressed my left hand to my lips, caught between smile and tears.

_Damn you, man, _I thought. _Damn you._ **_This_**_ is why I married you. This is why I love you so._

And: _This is why you will be one of the great kings of Rohan when all is said and done._

Éomer rose to his feet again and turned to me, effectively dismissing Danso and Helmichis. Those courtly gestures were clearly becoming more natural to _him_ at least. Then all thought fled from my mind, as Éomer smiled at me, his hair turned to pure gold by the evening sun. His eyes were lit with an inner fire to a deep russet hue. "I think that I still feel the fatigue of the battles and the journey in my bones, my lady. Would you mind to accompany me to our chambers now?"

I could only reply with a hoarse croak of assent.

**oooOooo**

Once in our bedchamber, Éomer thrust open the windows to let the golden air of this early summer-evening into the room. He stood in front of the open window framed in sunlight, only in his white shirt and trousers, the shirt untugged and billowing in the breeze. In dun, tawny and gold his hair tumbled in soft waves down to his shoulders. His face was thoughtful but relaxed, calm.

"I will be thirty-one years this summer, Lothíriel," Éomer said abruptly. "A year older than my father ever was."

He turned to me and his eyes were so dark that I could barely make out the pupils. "Already I have seen two wars and endless skirmishes. Yet I am still alive and he is not. When he died, my father left two children – it was hard on my sister."

"It was hard on me," he admitted. "But I was almost a man when my father died. My father was married and had a child by the time he was nineteen. Yet I have not been able to settle down until I met you."

Suddenly I realized what he wanted to say. He longed to have children – our children. And yet he was afraid of having children. Afraid of abandoning them in a world of war and hardship, as he had been abandoned. As his sister had been abandoned.

What could I say to comfort him? What could I say to alleviate his fears that would not be a lie?

Finally I simply went to stand with him in the fading rays of the sun. I put my arms around him and laid my face against his chest, listening to the deep, regular rhythm of his heart, inhaling the spicy scent of him that I loved so much.

Finally I knew what I could say. And I did.

"I love you, Éomer."

**oooOooo**

He picked me up then and kissed me and carried me back to the bed. Carefully he lowered me on the bed and reached for the buttons of my gown.

"What would you have me do, my love?" he whispered.

I smiled up at him, feeling giddy with love and desire. "Sing for me, Éomer. Sing a song for me!"

This perhaps untimely request brought an unexpected grin to his face. "Sing for you? Now? I? When you could have the Harper sing for you in the Golden Hall?"

I smiled back at him and felt that my smile could not grow anymore so all encompassing did it feel. "But I want _you_ to sing for me, not the Harper. And I want you to sing for me _here_, where only I can here you!"

Suddenly, shockingly, there were tears in Éomer's eyes. I inhaled sharply, unreasonably afraid that I had unwittingly said something to hurt him. But he closed his hand around mine and then he smiled at me again, a smile that was full of love and reassuring, but filled with deep sadness nevertheless.

"I was only reminded of something my mother used to say, when I was only a small child. My father was a good singer, too, you know. He would often sing for us at night when he was home, which was seldom enough. My mother liked poetry, and there was a bit of a poem that she always quoted when she asked my father to sing for us. Let's see if I still remember…"

For a moment Éomer closed his eyes, then he started reciting in Rohirric, first halting, then more and more fluent.

_"Longað þonnet þy lǽsþe him con léopa worn,_

_Oþþe mid hondun con hearpan grétan;_

_Hafaþ him his glíwes giefe, þe him Eru sealde."_

"Less doth yearning trouble him who knoweth many songs,

Or with his hands can touch the harp:

His riches are his gift of song and story which Eru bestowed."

Only when he was finished, he opened his eyes again. "But with my father all songs died for my mother and she could not be happy again, nor indeed live out her life among her children and her kin."

I sat up in bed and moved to kneel next to him.

What was there to say?

Grief could kill just as surely as swords could. The next war would come upon us as surely as the next sunrise.

I leaned in to kiss his lips and reached for the fastenings of his shirt. The knot was only very loosely tied. Swiftly it was unfastened and I slid the shirt down off his shoulders. Quickly Éomer cast off his trousers, just as I hastily shed my dress.

There was a new scar on his left shoulder, but only a small one, barely a nick. But I had to kiss that scar, I had to make sure that the body under the scar was warm and living and breathing. Just as he had to trace that scar across my breast and my throat again and again. Then I moved from the shoulder to his breast, kissing his nipples, enjoying the feeling of the silky curls on his chest against my cheek. Daringly, playfully, I caught hold of one nipple with my teeth, and lightly, lightly, ever so lightly nipped it. A deep moan was the very satisfactory response to that. So I allowed my lips to venture lower, and lower, allowed desire and curiosity to lead my mouth and my hands where they would. Éomer lay on his back, clenching and unclenching his hands, now and again moved to a deep-throated moan. How powerful this made me feel! What heat this called forth low in my body!

As I lowered my face to taste him once more, his hands came up and stayed my movement.

"Enough, my love," Éomer said, with a growl to his voice. "Or would you have me undone so early in the game?"

His hands only held me just above my hips, but his strength was such that I could not move away or towards him from that grip without struggling. I gasped as he drew me against him, as I felt his hot length pressed close against the lower part of my stomach. Easily Éomer turned us around so that I was lying next to him on the bed, and then under him. A light touch told him that I was ready for anything and everything he wanted.

"And now, let me love you, Lothíriel," he whispered and slid inside of me.

I gasped into his mouth, expecting the hot kisses and the wild ride I had enjoyed so much last night and this morning. But this time, Éomer had something different in mind. And stubborn Rohirrim that he was, Éomer was very set to have his way.

Gently, gently he pushed into me until he filled me to my depth. His movements were slow, almost soothingly, and yet he pushed me almost to the brink with his hard tenderness. He held himself on his elbows; his hands curled around my shoulders so that I could not move, but had to obey his lead in everything. Then he lowered his mouth down to my face and began trailing kisses along my temples, flicking his tongue against my ears, tracing my jaws with his llips, until he finally, blessedly found my mouth and silenced my helpless moans.

Softly, so softly he rocked his body against mine, locked his lips to mine, allowing tongue to meet tongue. He set a slow, inexorable rhythm that was a sweet, sweet torment for me. I wanted to scream and thrash and flail, but I could do neither. I could only suffer this golden feeling of love and desire growing and growing inside my body, enveloping me, spreading from me to him and from him to me and back again. I lost myself to his rhythm, I lost myself to Éomer, until suddenly, suddenly with a deep, slow thrust my world dissolved in golden ripples and we became one. We shuddered against each other, again, and again, overwhelmed by our shared, profound passion. Even when the throes of fulfilled desire abated we stayed joined, body to body, shivery breath to shivery breath, relaxing into each other.

Only when we were finally falling asleep, our breathing a soft and peaceful duet, did Éomer leave my body. But even then he did not let go of me, but continued holding me tight.

**oooOooo**

**A/N: **Just so that everybody knows just how Elfwine was made! ;-)

**oooOooo**

To answer a few questions:

**Raven** – nationality is a relatively new thing in human history, for example in the Middle Ages there was no such thing. People derived their feeling of identity from where they lived village/fiefdom and to which group of people/tribe they belonged. The way Tolkien describes the Rohirrim they feel very tribal to me. In such societies it will be shared blood, family ties that determine whether you belong to them or whether you are one of the others. That way Dunso, even though he was born in a Rohirric village would be one of the "others".

**Silver-Kalan** – sadly FFNet ate your e-mail-address. I have no idea if you will ever find this reply, but here goes: Lothíriel of Dol Amroth is (as far as I know) in _LOTR, Appendix A, The Kings of the Mark, The Third Line_ and _The History of Middle-earth, volume 12, The Peoples of Middle-earth, The Heirs of Elendil, The Line of Dol Amroth_ and _The Tale of Years of the Third Age _and _The Making of Appendix A_ (because of the many different editions no pages are given here).


	97. One Lótessë Morning…

**Acknowledgments: **This chapter is dedicated to the wonderful friends, readers and experts that continue answering my questions on the issues of pregnancy and birth.

This is for:

Aranel  
Ellenflower  
Frigg  
Narwen and her mother.

**Thank you very, very much!**

**oooOooo**

**97. One Lótessë Morning…**

It was the end of Lótessë. And we had a holiday coming up. Nothing important, a local Rohirric holiday to celebrate the advent of summer, the season of growth and fruitfulness. The holiday involved the slaughtering and the eating of suckling pig.

This was definitely not my kind of holiday.

Once again I found it really difficult to leave my upbringing behind me. Those piglets were so cute, as they tumbled over one another in the pen, searching for the most nourishing teat! And they were not the pink hairless ugly pigs I had seen on earth. These were shaggy, spotted animals that had real personalities – or so I was assured by Gamble, the gnarled Rohirrim in charge of the royal pigs.

Yes, there were pigs that belonged exclusively to the royal household. There were all kinds of animals that belonged to the royal household. And I am not talking about cats or Éomer's beloved dogs here. The ham on the table and the eggs in the pancakes have to come from somewhere.

Although I did enjoy the Rohirric ham and the one made of the royal pigs, too, I refused to participate in the ceremonial slaughtering of said suckling pig.

Éomer laughed at me for my squeamishness, but he indulged me and allowed me to stay away. The important part of the holiday was apparently not the slaughtering as such, but the consumption of a gruel made with the blood of that unfortunate animal in the morning of the holiday and of the roasted carcass in the evening.

It was early in the morning and it was a rainy Lótessë morning. A gentle, silver veil of rain covered the roofs and roads of Edoras before me. I inhaled the cool, soft air gratefully. I often felt queasy when I rose first thing in the morning, something to do with my low blood pressure. During the last days – probably due to the change of the weather from the sunny dry spell to these cooler, wetter conditions – it had been worse than usual.

My gaze rested on the thatched roof of the house closest to the palace of Meduseld. A blackbird was perched on the gable and singing in the rain, with no care for wet feathers. A family of sparrows was flitting in and out of the nest, busily feeding the baby sparrows. Unconsciously my hand stole to my stomach. There was the hope, of course, that the queasiness that I experienced in the mornings was not due to my blood pressure and a change of the weather. I had missed my monthlies, too. But I was wary of taking this as a sure fire sign for the pregnancy that I was hoping for so much. Here in Middle-earth, without the assistance of the pill that had me kept regularly back on earth before I had switched to the Implanon, I was irregular as hell. Twice before I had thought that I was pregnant, but both times Elaine had had to disappoint me. My stupid body had only thought it cute to miss a period.

"What has you frowning and looking so worried, my lady?" Sorcha asked, smoothing down the heavy blue-green skirts of her dress, as she left the shelter of the roof to come and stand next to me in the light drizzle. I glared at her. I was trying to get her to call me "Lothy" and "Lothíriel" again when we were alone. I did understand about the need for courtly etiquette in public, but when we were alone, I needed her to be my friend, and not my lady-in-waiting. At the moment we were alone, apart from Orn and Helmichis, and the door guards of the palace, all of them standing at the great doors of the Golden Hall. If we did not raise our voices, they would not be able to hear if Sorcha called me "my lady" or "Lothíriel". Most nobles did not seem to care overly much what they did and said in front of guards, anyway. A mistake, by the way. Ini, my maid-servant, was being courted by a handsome young guard of Éomer's, Ederyn – and he was a positive mine of information after standing guard at councils and assemblies. I looked over to the guards who stood tall and unmoving, staring stolidly ahead. I grinned. No… Not all of them were staring stolidly ahead with that cool and empty look of a guard on duty. One head, blond, dark eyes widening, bearded cheeks flushing, quickly turned away. Helmichis was on duty far more often than he ought to be, as second in command of the queen's guard. So far, to no avail. Sorcha stubbornly ignored the young warrior's patient efforts to get closer to her. But if someone was to ask me to place a bet in this game, I would choose Helmichis. The young guard's quiet tenacity would win through in the end. Or so I hoped, at least.

"My lady?" I ignored her. Sorcha sighed. But she was not the only one who could be stubborn in the palace of Meduseld, though I seldom allowed myself that luxury. "Lothíriel, what is the matter?" Suddenly Sorcha moved closer to me and unexpectedly put her hand on my arm, squeezing it comfortingly. "You know, you might be pregnant this time."

I drew a shivery breath. Normally I did not care much for the fact that my ladies-in-waiting and my maid-servants were in on those intimate details of my bodily functions. But Sorcha was my friend.

"I wish I was!" I said, more heatedly than I planned, feeling hot tears of frustration pricking in my eyes. "Oh, damn it. How I wish I was! And Éomer wishes for it, too. He knows that he needs an heir. I know that he needs and heir."

"But it is not only that, isn't it?" Sorcha asked gently.

"No, of course not!" I retorted, raising my hands in an angry, helpless gesture. These days everything seemed to irritate me. "I want us to be a family! Éomer wants to have a real family. But he is frightened, too. The way he lost his parents, the way he almost lost his sister in the war… He is afraid of the same happening to any children we might have. And yet…" My throat constricted, remembering the look of painful longing on Éomer's face. "When he speaks of Éowyn, so happy in her pregnancy and of Arwen's girls…

I swallowed hard.

"He loves you and his sister very much, Lothíriel. He is a young man still. It is only natural that he gets a bit sentimental about his only sister carrying her first," Sorcha commented, her tone calm and soothing. I rubbed my forehead with the fingers of my left hand, trying to smooth away the tension. I had the feeling that dealing with me was becoming a tedious full-time job for my ladies-in-waiting.

"How do you feel about getting pregnant? I imagine that you are a bit nervous, maybe? Such things will probably dealt very differently with, where you grew up?" Sorcha asked, unperturbed.

I exhaled heavily, my hands clenching automatically. I felt so torn! I wanted Éomer's child, more than anything else in the world. But I was also frightened to death with the thought of it. No real doctor to control things. No ultra-sound to tell me that everything was alright. No blood-samples to prove that I was getting all the right kinds of vitamins and trace-minerals and whatever is important during pregnancy. And then, no hospital for giving birth. No epidural. No emergency equipment. I felt my hands tremble and quickly crossed my arms in front of my breast. "I am a bit nervous," I said finally. My voice was shaky enough to tell Sorcha that "a bit nervous" was probably not quite accurate a description for the state of my nerves. "But I _want_ a child, Sorcha! Every time I see Solas, or Tally or Danso, I want a child of my own! Every time I see Anrid smile and pet her belly, I want to smile like that, too! But I am frightened, too. Maybe it is the fact that both of us are in two minds about having a child that keeps me from conceiving…" I trailed off and stared bleakly into the misty Lótessë morning. "I want to have a child so very, very much, Sorcha!" I whispered.

After a long moment of silence I breathed deeply, trying to calm down my jumbled thoughts and feelings. But from somewhere down below the smell of sewers drifted up to the terrace and promptly made me gag. However, with me any feeling of nervousness and excitement is directly linked to my stomach and my heart rate. Éowyn gets the shivers and icy hands. I feel nauseated and my heart starts racing. If you are waiting for tell-tale signs of pregnancy in a world without pregnancy tests to be bought in the drugstore at the corner, an easily upset stomach is a pain in the…

Sorcha looked at me thoughtfully for a moment, and then she raised her eyebrows at me. "Your wish for a child might be fulfilled sooner than you think, Lothíriel," Sorcha said with a bit of curious concern in her voice. "I really think that this time your queasiness is a bit intense for a change of weather or for rising early and having had no breakfast yet. And if you don't mind my saying so, you do seem to be a bit excitable these last few days."

My hand stole down to my stomach again. The wave of nausea had passed as quickly as it had come. My heart was pounding and hopeful excitement made my stomach flutter. "Do you really think so?"

Sorcha shrugged. "I am not a healer, and when I had Solas, I had no morning-sickness at all. But I have seen you on quite a number of mornings now… so I think that I am able judge what is normal for you and what is not. Maybe you should ask Elaine to have a look at you, later today?"

What Sorcha said was true. We had lived together in Edoras for almost eight months now. She knew what a grouch I was in the morning. She knew that I often felt a bit off-colour in the morning and with the change of weather. Perhaps, this time it was not my body acting up…

I closed my eyes, trying not to get too dizzy with hope for a tiny, golden haired boy to smile up at me with Éomer's dark eyes and perhaps a hint of my mother's brilliant smile…

"But please, don't say anything at breakfast," I asked Sorcha. "If it is only me being irregular again, I don't want to disappoint Éomer."

His understanding and comforting words and his embraces had been almost more than I could bear the last two times when I had thought that I might be pregnant.

"Of course," Sorcha nodded. "That is nothing to bother him with, until we are sure of your condition. But don't worry, even if you should not be pregnant this time, either. You may be a bit older than most, for your first child. But you are a young woman still, and strong. You have time enough to have many children."

I sighed deeply. But before I could answer, the doors of the Hall were opened and Mistress Gosvintha walked towards us, the hem of her long, dark dress rustling on the stone floor of the terrace. "My lady, it is time. Breakfast is ready to be served and the Harper has prepared a hymn to Yavanna for this holiday, and to Bema. Éomer King sends me to ask for your presence in the Hall now."

I nodded and turned. Some hot gruel and some songs to Yavanna and Oromë would not be too hard to take, I thought, and entered the hall in front of Sorcha and Gosvintha.

**oooOooo**

In the Golden Hall I was delighted to see that this holiday called for a relaxed order of seating. The high-backed throne like chairs were nowhere in sight, instead two of the heavy wooden benches that normally stood at the side of the hall were placed on both sides of the long table.

I felt a smile spread on my face. If I got to sit close to Éomer and not on a bloody throne for it, I guessed that I could come to like hot gruel laced with pig's blood.

Éomer answered my smile with one of his quick, surprising grins. He seemed to know exactly what I was thinking. He came to meet in halfway to the table, courteously taking my hand, but drawing me far closer to his body than courtly manners called for. As always, I enjoyed the firm grip his hand and the warm strength of his body pressed to mine. But when I inhaled happily, the spicy scent of his body and his perfume was mingled not with the comfortable scent of hay and horse, but with the rather pungent smell of pigs. Promptly my stomach tightened up uncomfortably.

_Perhaps I was really pregnant?_

On the other hand, did I want to feel queasy and nauseated for weeks?

Éomer inconspicuously sneaked his arm around me. I felt my heart melt for him. Even though he smelled like a pig at the moment.

Yes, I definitely wanted to feel queasy and nauseated for weeks, if only that meant that we would be a real family!

Then breakfast was served and I reconsidered.

The gruel or grits was hot with steam curling above the big bowls placed on the table. I swallowed hard. And it smelled rather strongly like… well, perhaps not like blood, but certainly like hot liver sausage or some such. A warm, tangy smell with a metallic undertone that seemed to clog the back of my mouth. I swallowed again. My stomach rebelled.

The Rohirrim looked happily at the bowls.

I realized that I had to be strong now.

One of the servants placed a well filled bowl of gruel in front of me. Up close it was worse than the smell. It was a brownish, sluggish mixture with bits of freshly made sausage in it. A feast for the common people in Rohan, I did realize that. I did understand why it would be a holiday when the first young animal of the season was ready to be slaughtered and eaten. I did understand why it was important for the king to share these holidays with his people.

But damn it all to hell, why did that holiday have to start with a breakfast consisting of hot cereal with curdled pig's blood?

I had not even been fond of Blutwurst and Pressack way back in Germany, and no one had ever been able to persuade me to try a Metzelsuppn.

I clenched my teeth and stared at the bowl in front of me, wishing nothing so much as that it would disappear. Éomer raised his mug of ale for a holiday toast. When I lifted my beaker I was glad to see that there was only cider in it.

"_Wes ðu hal!_ Hail!"

Fortunately Rohirrim toasts are short and concise, most of the time, keeping things down to what is absolutely necessary before it comes to the drinking. Eagerly I gulped the cool, mild cider, hoping that it would settle my stomach. Indeed, my stomach felt better with the tart taste of cider on my tongue and the cool liquid running soothingly down my throat.

I took up my spoon.

It was hot. And slimy. I swallowed quickly, not daring to taste. My stomach was fine with hot and slimy. A pleasant warm weight expanded in my stomach. I ate quickly, drinking deeply from my cider between spoonfuls. After a time of single-minded, concentrated eating, I sufficiently relaxed to lean back and sigh with relief. My stomach seemed to be all settled now. Probably it was only the weather, once again. Or it was the onset of my monthlies that had me a bit queasy. I balled my hands into fists to keep me from wistfully touching my belly again.

When the morning meal was finished and the bowls and dishes cleared away by swift-footed servants, the Harper allowed Tally to lead him to the centre of the Golden Hall. I don't think he really needed any assistance, blind though he was, but Tally was so sweet in his insistence to aid his master in any way he could that the Harper accepted more help from the small boy than was really necessary.

This morning the Harper would sing and Tally would play the harp, the small round Rohirric lap harp that was a favoured instrument by many artists and would-be musicians at court.

I inched a bit closer to Éomer, hoping that in his holiday mood he might be inclined to forget about courtly manners today. Indeed, he put his arm around me again and even rested his head against mine, settling down to listen to the bard comfortably.

Somehow the renewed knowledge of just how easily we might lose one another to war and death, and the joy at being together again had changed things between us. We were closer than before Éomer had gone to help Aragorn hold the border of Harondor and we were easier in our daily dealings with one another. Also, both of us had grown into our respective roles during the months spent apart. The security that came from that did much to smooth and strengthen our relationship.

So I leaned happily into Éomer's embrace, ready to enjoy the singing.

**oooOooo**

After a few minutes of listening, I began to feel a bit edgy and uncomfortable. My stomach, moments ago comfortably settled, felt now unbelievably stuffed and heavy enough to bring the bench down on which we were seated. I swallowed hard and moved away from Éomer a bit. Swallowing was a mistake.

The working of my throat brought back an intensive aftertaste of mealy gruel with an intensive livery flavour that was thick enough to fill my mouth almost like the real thing.

The Harper sang of blood and war.

What else would he be singing of, in Rohan? I thought irritably, trying to think of anything else but blood. But my mind could not be swayed. The stale, metallic taste in my mouth intensified.

Now the Harper was singing about the blood and milk that nourished the people of the Rohirrim – the black cattle of the Emnet, given to the Rohirrim by Bema, just as he had given them the Mearas…

That brought my mind back to the piglets and the way the piglet must have squealed that had let its life for the grits of this morning and the roast for tonight. How the blood must have splashed… how it had curdled in the heat of the cooking grits…

My stomach coiled up.

I gulped.

Gulping did not help.

I heaved, got a mouthful of the grits back into my mouth along with sour fluids. I tensed up and swallowed it back down.

I would have to run.

I turned to Éomer, barely able to keep my breakfast down. Urgently I prodded his arm. "Éomer," I whispered, my teeth clenched, my stomach tightened, hoping against hope that I would be able to make it out of the hall. "Éomer, I have to leave now, I am not well!"

He frowned at me. "Leave now? In the middle of the hymn? What is the matter with you?"

My throat working dryly, I tried to summon the strength for an answer.

"Lothíriel, my love, what is the matter? You look so pale suddenly!" Éomer reached for me, his expression anxious.

But this slight touch, this little movement, was enough to make me lose what control I had over my upset stomach. I started heaving, heaving, tried to turn around, but Éomer was still holding me, tried to cover my mouth with my hands, but with the violent convulsions that gripped me there was neither aim nor restraint.

When I collapsed onto the bench and opened my eyes again, Éomer was dripping all over with regurgitated grits and curdled pig's blood, with a bit of what undoubtedly began the meal as a bit of sausage tangled in his hair.

I coughed and gasped and stared at Éomer, light-headed and relieved of that terrible nausea and heaviness to my stomach. Éomer stared at me. Then he looked down his front, the dripping tunic and shirt, the way slimy bits of vomit slowly dripped down to the floor. He looked utterly disgusted, but also shocked and worried – and: thoughtful.

His eyes grew calm; I could see that he was thinking hard. He looked at me, with one of his long dark looks. Suddenly a smile started at the corners of his eyes, crinkling the skin, lighting up his eyes, tugging at the corners of his lips, widening his mouth to one of his most brilliant smiles. He smiled at me and then he asked, "Lothíriel, my love, is it possible that you are with child?"

I stared at him. Involuntarily my hand dropped to my stomach. Never before had I puked like that for no good reason. An unbelievable rush of joy and happiness spread through me.

"I am not sure," I answered honestly, my voice shaking a bit. "Maybe?"

**oooOooo**

Elaine spread the covers over me with a surprisingly tender gesture and sat down at my bedside.

After Éomer and the others had overcome the first moment of shock at my "explosion" I was carried to our bedchamber by Elfhelm. Once there Sorcha, Anrid and Elaine proceeded to fuss over me. I was undressed and put to bed like a child.

Then Elaine had sent everyone out of the room and proceeded to question me about how I was feeling. She already knew that I had missed my monthlies once again.

Was I feeling rather tired lately?

_Oh, yes…_ But I had thought that was due to Éomer and me spending a good part of every night awake…

Was I prone to mood swings that I could not quite explain?

I felt rather irritable at that question. How should I know that? But I guess that was an answer all by itself.

Were my breasts more sensitive than I was used to?

_Er… yes…_ But again I had assumed that was rather caused by Éomer's fortunate return and our resumed marital activities during the nights.

Did I experience strange appetites? For things that I would not normally eat or drink? Did other things inexplicably make me sick?

Was it really _inexplicable_ that hot grits with curdled pig's blood made me sick?

But I had to admit to a rather hopeless desire for coke. Coca Cola. One of the things that I would definitely not be able to get here…

At last Elaine smiled at me, one of her rare, beautiful smiles. "Well, Lothíriel. I think that you are indeed with child. It's still a bit early, but if you don't get your monthlies in the next two weeks, I think we can be sure. And I don't think you will be disappointed this time. There are too many signs, this time. Sensitive breasts, a certain irritability, the need for more sleep, an easily upset stomach… Now, I want you to take it easy for the next few weeks until we can be really sure that you are really with child. You don't have to stay in bed, but for the time being rest a bit more than you usually do. And no more weapons' training and no hard riding. Just to be careful." She patted my reassuringly. "Now, is there anything you might want to ask me?"

I stared at her. I still felt light-headed and now my mind was completely blank – and a wild jumble of thoughts, all at the same time. Again, my left hand stole down to my stomach. Was there someone in there? Was I not alone in this body anymore? Was a tiny life in there that belonged to both Éomer and me? A new life that our love had created?

I stared at Elaine, trying to sort out my thoughts and come up with some kind of coherent comment or question, but nothing came to mind.

Elaine laughed softly, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Well, I will be around when you have any question later on. And please, if you sense anything amiss, speak to me at once. You are older than most women are for their first child. And you carry the heir to the throne of Rohan. We have to take extra care with you."

I swallowed hard and nodded wordlessly. I knew that twenty-six was really not old for a first child – at least on earth. But on earth medicine was on a very different level than it was here. I felt my heart speed up. No need to worry, I told myself. _You are healthy… and women have born children without ultrasound and hospitals for hundreds of years… there's nothing to be afraid of…**But I was afraid, of course.**_

"I think Éomer King will want to talk to you now," Elaine said and rose from her seat at the side of my bed. She went to the door. I could hear her talking in a low voice to someone who had been waiting outside. The voice that answered her was dark and deep. Éomer!

And then he was at my side, sitting down where Elaine had sat only a moment ago. He was dressed in a fresh shirt and tunic and his hair framed his face in damp curls.

"My love," he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. "Oh, my love!"

Suddenly an immense feeling of joy enveloped me. My hand still rested lightly on my stomach. For the first time I was sure that it was true. I just _knew _it was true. I carried our child in my womb. A child of love and joy and peace.

I smiled at Éomer.

I felt that I would never be able to stop smiling again.

**oooOooo**

**A/N: **

"Blutwurst" and "Pressack" are similar things, something like blood sausage. They can be very good! "Metzelsuppn" is the broth in which blood and liver sausages are boiled. Sometimes a sausage will burst in the process of cooking and the contents stay in the broth. "Waste not, want not" is probably a universal truth where farmers are concerned; anyway, in rural Frankonia "Metzelsuppn" is the traditional evening meal on the day of slaughtering.

**oooOooo**

**A/N: **Some more thank-you's and comments.

Thank you for reading and commenting, Narwen, Aranel, Christina, Milissa, Mortal Evenstar, Lucretia, Frigg, Eirwen, Soccer-bitch, Mija, Arwen101.

Special thanks to Eyes of sky for explaining that "ah". I am glad that my story provoked such a sound!

More special thanks to Calenia, I am very happy that you found, read, enjoyed and reviewed my story.

I hope all of you enjoy this perhaps a bit unconventional revelation of Lothy's pregnancy!

Yours  
Juno


	98. A Lazy Summer’s Day, a Rather Large Book...

**98. A Lazy Summer's Day, a Rather Large Book, a Letter and Two Surprises**

I stopped smiling early next morning, when I puked my guts out again. Only this time, there was a bucket. The bucket was held by an unflinching Ini. I was held by a very flinching Éomer.

When I was deposited in the bed again, feeling light-headed and hollow with the vomiting, I felt as if I would never smile again. Visions of coca-cola and Gummibärchen were dancing in my mind.

On earth I had never particularly cared for that brownish-black sweetish bubbly soft-drink. Or the multi-coloured gummi sweets.

_Now I felt as if I would die without them._

I felt how my eyes filled with tears behind the closed lids.

_Was my sanity slipping completely? I should be over the moon with joy at being pregnant, not crying for coke and sweets!_

I opened my eyes only to look into my husband's worried face. He looked so cute, all pale, his eyes huge and dark – confused and really worried.

"I think that is normal," I said. "Don't worry."

But he had already called for Elaine.

Her examination was quick. She sniffed at the vomit. She ascertained that I had no temperature, no bleeding, no pain.

Finally the healer smiled at the king of Rohan, who looked beside himself with worry. "Everything is as it should be. It is only a bit of morning sickness. Many women suffer from that condition. I recommended a bit of dry bread and water. And perhaps my lady should stay in bed for an hour or two longer. There is really no need to be concerned. The queasiness should pass in a few weeks."

I lay in our bed, staring at the dark green curtains around the bed. I felt utterly exhausted and feeble. _A few weeks…_

I remembered reading romance novels with pregnant heroines. Now was the time, when the heroine in those novels would get all annoyed and infuriated at her husband for getting her in this uncomfortable condition. Unfortunately, the puking seemed to have robbed me of any energy to get angry. _At anyone._ After all, I had cheerfully participated in the activities that led to my condition. So it would not be very fair to get mad at Éomer, sitting at my side, holding my hand and looking positively grey with worry. But as it was, the best I could come up with was a nod, a very wavering smile and a whispered "Okay".

At least I did not break into tears and start crying for my mother and a bottle of coke.

**oooOooo**

After a few weeks the morning sickness passed and was replaced by a feeling of energy and happiness. If I had not known better, I would have said that I was continually high.

High and hyper.

For the first time in my life, I thought that I was beautiful whenever I looked into the mirror in my dressing-room and Éomer's glowing smile whenever he looked at me supported this delusion. I knew, of course, that this was only baby-hormones, fooling pregnant women about the certain outcome… but even thinking _that_ and _knowing_ that sometime in the future there would be birth and blood and pain… now that the bouts of queasiness had passed, it was really hard to stop smiling at all or to keep my thoughts away from my still flat belly and its tiny inhabitant…

_When would I be able to feel him for the first time?_ _Or her?_

Once again my hand slid down to my stomach. Sorcha smiled at me, letting her embroidery sink into her lap. "It will be a bit until you can feel him," she said.

I sighed, giving up on the book about Rohan's laws on the table in front of me. I just could not concentrate today. "I am impatient. I want to really feel that he is in there."

Sorcha laughed at that. "Towards the end you will only think about how to get him out of there."

I raised my eyebrows at my friend. "_Uhhh…_ thank you for that encouraging comment."

But I just could not worry or feel apprehensive. I could only smile. When I saw how in turn Helmichis smiled at Sorcha, the smile on my face only widened, although I sighed a little at the same time. Helmichis was so sweet in his unobtrusive, persistent suit of my red-haired friend. But Sorcha was set on ignoring "the boy" as she insisted calling him when we were alone, in spite of my raised eyebrows. I really liked Helmichis. And he was so obviously smitten with my friend…

I turned my attention back to the book I had wanted to study. My fingers traced the golden designs on the book cover. Though book is perhaps the wrong word. Tome. Folio. _A book_ you can carry around in a bag. This _slab_ of parchment and leather-cover embossed in gold was too heavy for me to carry anywhere. You might think that with such a huge _book_ the letters contained in it might at least be approaching a size of being easily readable. I rubbed my forehead. _Easily readable books… _At the moment, a nice paperback novel and a bottle of coke were tied for the first place of things I missed most from the world where I was born.

But at least I was able to read by now. Cirth and Tengwar. Rohirric, Common and Sindarin. After a struggle of almost two years I had finally learned my letters. But that does not mean reading was a lark now. There were only very few casual pieces of writing in the library of Meduseld. The tales and legends of the Rohirrim are kept alive in songs and stories, not in books. So the novels, the plays and the poems to be found in the library were either of Elvish or Gondorian origin. Also, there was still too much I had to learn about Rohirric laws and history, to have much time for poems or plays.

No, I did not sigh. I actually enjoyed getting well versed in the laws and the history of my new home. This particular tome was a collection of Rohirric laws. It began with the laws of Calenardhon, the province of Gondor that Rohan had been before it had become a kingdom in its own right. Therefore it was written in Tengwar and in Common. But that was only the main part of the book: a survey of Rohirric law beginning with the Deed of Eorl and ending with the Statute of Thengel concerning the royal estates. The other parts of the book (the more important parts in fact) were annotations at the sides, between the lines of the main part of the text and at the bottom of the text. And those annotations were completely mixed: in the kind of writing that was used and as well as in the language. As far as I could tell, the earliest annotations were in Tengwar and in Westron. Then, they switched to Tengwar, Rohirric. Probably with the development of something like well, not national identity… but certainly Rohirric identity. After that came a period where Cirth and Rohirric was used. Perhaps a time of estrangement between Rohan and Gondor? The latest comments were again in Westron and in a very clear and "modern" version of Tengwar.

Trying to make sense of the words was a challenge. _Understanding_ what it was all about was an awesome endeavour. But since that case with Danso, people had begun requesting audiences with _me_. And more often than not, the pleas that were brought to me were of a more or less legal nature. Therefore I made every effort to understand every pernickety detail of the Rohirric laws and customs. Éomer said that I was keeping Thorkel and Lamont on their toes. Well, since my morning sickness had passed and _I_ felt so incredibly alert and active, _they_ looked rather haggard and worn. Maybe it was not quite that bad. But I could see the sighs in their eyes that they were too polite to voice, when I came to them with yet another question, asking for yet another lesson…

But today I did not feel like plaguing any of the old scholars. I did not even feel like reading. The day was much too beautiful for that. It was the end of Cermië, and the world was filled with sunshine and a wonderful summery blue. The summer was warm, but not hot. There had been enough rain so far that the crops looked excellent, far better than in the last four years, or so I was told. The lush green of spring had changed to the more subdued shades of summer. The air was mild and sweet, with that subtle taste of hey and drying meadow blossoms. For once I had dared to have tables and benches and chairs moved out on the terrace in front of the Golden Hall. Even the precious tome of Rohirric law. There was no cloud in the sky. And we were in the shade of the low roof of the Golden Hall, so the colours of the writing and the calligraphy were not exposed to direct sunlight.

It was a delicious summer day.

I stretched in my chair, groaning comfortably. _The only thing that would make this day even more perfect would be a bottle of coke… or my husband at my disposal to have my wicked ways with him… or a bottle of coke… hmmm…_

But Éomer was on a day's ride to the royal estates of Snowbourne County.

At least he had given up his initial refusal to make love to me while I was pregnant. Not that I had been up to much nightly mischief during the weeks of puking… but now… the mere thought of Éomer made my body tingle in the most unlikely places…

I had to suppress a giggle at the thought of Éomer's face when made the first advances to him after my pregnancy had been confirmed. Torn between fear, embarrassment and desire – I had collapsed with laughter, thus destroying the very mood I had worked up to. I felt a smile tugging at my lips, threatening to turn into a wicked grin, as I remembered just how I had in the end persuaded Éomer to overcome his apprehension and make love to me – until I did not feel like it anymore or Elaine forbade it.

I had asked the healer about that. I am not stupid. But Elaine had assured me that it was quite alright, as long as I did not develop any complications. She had only advised me that cleanliness came next to Godliness and raised one of her black eyebrows at me. My cheeks burning with embarrassment I had nodded my thanks to the healer wordlessly. Not that _this_ was really an issue where Éomer was concerned… However I would not even try to imagine the state some of the soldiers were in that Elaine had to treat.

I shuddered a bit and allowed my gaze to drift over the familiar skyline of Edoras. Suddenly my heart went wide with the joy of that view. The homely thatched roofs, the strong, flowing lines of green and red decorating the beams… the white washed facades… the hint of wood smoke on the breeze… the sounds of singing and laughter drifting up to me from the city… the water in the channel sparkling… and beyond the walls of Edoras… a wide green country, free, peaceful, beautiful – and my home.

My husband's home.

Our baby's home.

Sudden tears of happiness pricked in my eyes.

_Stupid baby hormones…_

**oooOooo**

Elaine had brought out her herbs and what's not and was busy with mortar and pestle. Sorcha had taken up her embroidery again… and the Queen of Rohan… I… was still day dreaming. I heard them before I saw them. Six sets of hooves thundering up the road towards the terrace. Then he was already round the corner and as my eyes took in a dishevelled mane of golden and dun hair and glowing dark eyes, my stomach did a joyfully somersault. Éomer swung down from the back of his stallion with the easy strength of a trained warrior. My way of getting of a horse was still more the groan and slide-routine. Damn, but I _loved_ to see the sheer strength of his body in his movements.

Then I frowned. It looked as if he was holding his stomach.

At once my heart was in my mouth, and icy fear trickling down my spine.

But he was smiling!

And then was there, kneeling in front of me, cheeks flushed from a fast ride, reaching for my hands…

But not to kiss them, as he usually did. Instead he drew my hands to his tunic. There was something strange about his tunic, a bulge where no bulge had any reason to be. Before I could frown or say anything at all, I felt a warm weight in my hands. The warm weight moved. I drew my hands away.

Is a queen allowed to squee?

Probably that is not an appropriate behaviour for a queen. Pregnancy cuts you a lot of slack as a queen. Does that include squeeing? Probably not. Oh, well. I guess I would have squeed either way.

In my cupped hands sat a tiny kitten. Tiger striped, with huge ears and glowing green eyes, a brown button nose and a stubby tail. The kitten looked at me and yawned, showing a pink tongue and white pointy teeth. Then it started purring.

"Oh," I whispered. "Oh, is that cute."

That was probably not the wittiest comment to make. But there are only very few intelligent things you can say when you are pregnant, and you love cats and your husband gives you a kitten. But Éomer grinned, a grin that reached from one ear to the other.

"I thought you might like a kitten, you were so sad when the other ones died," he put his hands around my hands, holding the purring kitten with me. "And I remember my mother was soothed by the purring of our wee cat when she was heavy and uncomfortable my sister."

As always, his smile faded a little when he mentioned his mother, but his eyes stayed bright with happiness. I nodded wordlessly, too unsure of my voice to reply aloud.

The kitten purred loudly as Éomer proceeded to scratch its chin. A perfect little tiger. I grinned down at the tiny cat. The palace cat had been killed by a straying dog, and her newborn kittens had not survived despite all our efforts. It would be so nice to have a kitten around.

Then Éomer rose to his feet and greeted the other members of the household that were present amiably. Shortly he was sitting with us, the tunic shed, the sleeves of his shirt rolled back, revealing his muscular forearms, a tankard of ale set in front of him. Obviously the visit to Snowbourne County had gone well.

Éomer drank deeply, and then dried his lips with the back of his hand. He looked supremely content. The kitten had settled down on my lap without further ado, purring blissfully. "How are you today, my learned lady," Éomer asked, his gaze resting on the heavy tome that was still on the table in front of me.

"Finished for the day," I said, with a smile and a sigh. I looked around for a servant or male member of the household with sufficient bodily strength to return the book to the library. Guards had that strength, of course. But guards may never be asked to fetch and carry. Their duty is only to guard you with their weapons and their life, should the need arise. To be able to do that, they need to have their hands free. There was Amhlaoibh, my young scribe, sitting discreetly in the background on the bench around the hall. He was lanky and not really strong. But there was no way that Ini could carry that monster of a book. And Amhlaoibh knew where to put it and how to handle it with care. "Amhlaoibh," I asked, calling for the scribe in what I hoped was a friendly and polite tone. "Would you be so kind and take that book back to the library? I don't think I will need it anymore today."

The young man was on his feet at once, bowing to me. "Of course, my lady," he replied. He could carry the book. But you could see that it was heavy for him, as he walked with bent shoulders towards the gates of the hall. Éomer's lips quivered with suppressed mirth. It was not that Éomer did not respect the learned men and… well, he had taken to calling me "his learned lady"… But his was more a world of sword and strategy, than lore and laws. We were beginning to complement us nicely.

Now Éomer turned his attention to Elaine who was still busy with her medicines. "How is my wife these days," he asked without further preliminaries. I rolled my eyes at him. He ignored me. Elaine looked up and smiled at me. I think that she was enjoying herself immensely, with Éomer and me being worried in turns and turning to her for advice like children to their mother.

"She is very well, my lord," Elaine answered. "The morning sickness is gone for good. There is no pain, no bleeding. My lady is strong and healthy. And happy, I think." She smiled at me. But there was a darkness in her grey eyes that seemed to say, _"But I am not."_ Although she had settled in and found her place and position in the royal household by now, and there were no more real troubles, Elaine was the only one who was still not completely at home here. And not happy, not happy at all.

Éomer ignored the passing shadow on the healer's face. "Is my wife able to travel then? In a carriage maybe?"

_Travel?_ If I was a dog, my ears would have perked now. I realized that I had completely forgotten about the weekly messenger from Minas Tirith that had been due to arrive today. Éomer must have intercepted him upon his return to the city. _Could that possibly mean that we would go somewhere?_

"Not in a carriage," I said without thinking. "That would insult my Mimi." And my buttocks. Carriage rides are not very comfortable on roads without pavement and in carriages without springs.

"But riding can't be good for a woman with child," Éomer objected, turning to Elaine for confirmation. _X or Y can't be good for a woman with child…_ That was a sentence I knew by heart two months after Elaine had confirmed my pregnancy. Luckily Elaine tended to disagree with my husband. And luckily Éomer tended to believe the healer.

"But I want to ride," I retorted mutinously and turning to Elaine in the hope of getting my way once again. But then I hesitated and gave Éomer what I hoped was a brilliant smile. "Where are we going? Did you meet the messenger?"

Éomer grinned at me mischievously and reached for his tunic. From somewhere inside the leather he produced a small roll of parchment. "A missive from my sister. She is due to give birth at the beginning of Yavannië. She desires her sister-in-law to be with her. And you are not going to ride."

_We would travel to Gondor!_ I felt my heart begin to pound with excitement. I would be with Éowyn when she gave birth! Automatically my hand flew down to my own stomach, trying to fathom the life that was growing within me. And I would get to see Arwen's little girls!

But I did not want to go to Gondor in a carriage. "I want to ride," I repeated and turned back to Elaine.

Elaine's face remained friendly and polite. Only in the shifting light of her eyes I thought I could see an internal groan. "Actually, my lord," Elaine began. _Oh joy! _I would be allowed to ride!

"Actually, my lord, a jolting carriage ride would probably be more exhausting to your wife in her present condition than a Meara's smooth walk. However, I do advise to travel very slowly and stop early," the healer went on. "Your wife is healthy and strong and the pregnancy is going well, but the heir to the throne of Rohan should not be put to any risks."

Éomer did sigh. He also raised his eyebrows at Elaine. But he nodded as he obviously compared a carriage ride to the smooth walk of a Meara in his mind. Then the king of Rohan gave a small snort and nodded to me. "Very well, Lothíriel. Have it your way. You are going to ride. But only very slowly. And not far. We will get to Minas Tirith even if we move slowly."

"So we are going to Minas Tirith?" I asked, holding my hand out for the letter that was still in Éomer's hands.

Éomer grinned at me. "Yes, we are, dear. Didn't I say so?"

**oooOooo**

**A/N: **I hope you don't mind this sweet little chapter of basically nothing too much. Somehow I could not get them going. I will make it up to you with the next two chapters.

And here's a **big thank you to all of you lurkers**, you many shy readers who have never dropped me a line. I know that you are there and that you are still reading this story. I appreciate your faithfulness immensely.

If you feel like just saying "Hi", if you would like to ask a question about anything at all, or if you want to tell me about something you liked or disliked, **please**, do not be afraid to do so! I don't mind anonymous comments at all, either here or at my LJ.

Yours

JunoMagic


	99. Halifirien Hill

**99. Halifirien Hill**

We travelled slowly. Compared to my experience with the awesome speeds Mearas are capable of we moved at a snail's pace. But I did not mind at all. It was the height of summer. I was happy and I was pregnant with my first child. This was the closest to a holiday I would probably ever get with a husband who was a king.

We set out with as small an entourage as possible. The king's guard, the queen's guard, the members of the royal household who wanted to come and a handful of servants. All in all we numbered not even one hundred, mostly on horse, with only half a dozen carriages.

The harper had stayed behind in Edoras, but he had entrusted Tally to Sorcha's care. Sorcha was in the most comfortable of our carriages now, together with Tally, Danso and Solas. Sorcha had been all in favour of staying behind with her daughter, but Éomer wanted her to accompany us. I guess more specifically, he wanted her to accompany me, as he knew that she was my best friend among my ladies-in-waiting. Also, Anrid was not up to that journey anymore, due to give birth around the same time as my sister-in-law. It went without saying that Elaine was with us, too.

The weather was fair as we rode out of the gates of Edoras. The sun glinted on the helmets, sword hilts and shields of our guards. The hooves resounded like cheerful drum rolls on the pavement. I rode next to Éomer at the front of our company. Númendil rode to the left side of my husband, on a young grey mare. Not a Meara, yet, but a noble horse all the same. The boy had grown so much in that year. He _was_ still a boy, but only just. He was on his way to become a man. His face had changed. He looked more like his older brother Elphir, now that the softness of childhood was leaving his features. There was something of both of his parents in him.

Once again I was happy that he had become Éomer's squire, because with him a part of my first Middle-earth family was present in Rohan. He had grown his hair long, like a rider of Rohan. _Soon the girls will begin looking at him_, I thought as we rode down to the crossroads at the bridge across Snowbourne River. If I had not been riding, I think my hand would have stolen down to rest on my stomach again, marvelling at this miracle inside me, making me wonder about my child and how it would grow up to be… _a handsome lad or a pretty girl?_

Preoccupied with my thoughts of the future as I was, I barely glanced at the grave mounds flowering with _simbelyinë_ to the left and the right of the road. But I knew that Éomer looked at them, because he always did, with his eyes dark with sorrow and memory. But then we were past the graves and turned onto the Great West Road. For almost fifteen miles the road followed the river on its meandering way towards the east, where it would eventually join the Entwash. The Entwash was a big river coming out of Fangorn Forest. It was the border between the provinces of West Emnet and East Emnet and farther to the south-east it became the border between East Emnet and the Eastfold.

We rode only about twenty miles that first day and made camp early, enjoying a leisurely meal of stew and bread around the fire when the sun was still golden and warm. Later I lay curled up in Éomer's arms, almost comfortable on a thick padded mat that would serve as our bed during the journey. Éomer's hand rested on my stomach, large and warm. I don't think that I ever felt happier in my life. I had the choice to lose my gaze in the flames of the campfire or the myriads of stars in the sky above. Or my husband's beautiful dark eyes. Or I could simply close my eyes and allow myself to be enveloped in the spicy heat of my husband's embrace.

It was a sound somewhere between humming and rumbling that made me open my eyes again. I turned my head to look at Éomer. He smiled at me, his eyes dark, filled with reflections of the leaping flames of the campfire and the fire of his heart.

"Is that a song or a cough?" I asked finally.

The sound stopped and Éomer grinned at me. "It was not quite a song, my love. It was a bit of a rhyme, something that my father taught me, when I was very young. A teaching song, you could call it perhaps. I learned it when I was a bit older than Solas, but younger than Tally, I think. Five winters, perhaps?"

"A nursery rhyme?" I asked, surprised and touched.

I felt Éomer's nod in soft scratching of his bearded chin against my neck. A shiver ran down my spine. I inhaled his scent greedily. Leather, horse, sweat and summer. A day's riding in warm summer air, soaked into his skin. But this was not the time or the place for shivers and more intimate touches – with our guards, the other members of the household and the children drifting off to sleep all around us. I sighed.

"What is the rhyme about?" I inquired, snuggling closer into the cosy warmth of Éomer's body. "Will you sing it for me?"

"It is about the beacon hills of Gondor. I think the foothills of the Irensaga that we passed today reminded me of the beacon hills. I will try if I remember the words. It was a long time ago I last heard them."

For a moment he was silent, then he resumed his humming. After a while of crooning a strongly rhythmic melody, Éomer suddenly began to sing in a soft voice.

"When dark is the hour and dire the need,  
Flames across seven hills shall speed.

On Amon Dîn, silent hill  
Brightest blaze the night shall fill.

On Eilenach, tooth of fire,  
Flames will flare in brilliant spire.

On Nardol, also, fire head,  
Another beacon light shall spread.

On Erelas, our vigil green,  
Flares from far off will be seen.

On Minrimmon, our tower of old,  
Fires shall shine ever so bold.

On Calenhad, all crowned in green,  
No flame will e'er remain unseen.

On Amon Anwar, hill of awe,  
The flames shall forth the riders draw.

_When dark is the hour and dire the need,  
Flames across seven hills shall speed._

_On Amon Dîn, silent hill,  
On Eilenach, fire-sill,  
On Nardol, knoll of fire-sheen,  
On Erelas, our vigil green,  
On Minrimmon, our tower of old,  
On Calenhad, all crowned in gold,  
On Amon Anwar, hill of awe -_

_The flames shall forth the riders draw._"

After a time the names of the hills and the melody of the song mingled with the crackling sounds of the fire and the soothing breath of the nightly breeze, and I fell asleep in Éomer's arms.

**oooOooo**

A week later we reached the border between Rohan and Gondor. The county Fenmarch is probably the greenest part of Rohan, with the Entwash and Mering Stream providing enough water for even corn or wheat, crops that would not grow in the Emnet or the Wold.

Tonight we would stay in Fenmarch Fortress, the garrison at the border between Rohan and Gondor. The importance of Fenmarch Fortress lies not in the strength of its walls, though they are impressive, but in its stables. Fenmarch Fortress is home to a company of White Riders, a small contingent of the King's Guard on Mearas. Relay riders and messengers to take up any signal flashed from the Gondorian beacon hill of Halifirien on the other side of Mering Stream.

When we had stayed here before, or passed by the high grey walls and towers of the fortress, I had not given the garrison much thought beyond noting that it was there, protecting the border. Now, the words of that teaching song about the beacon hills still in my thoughts, along with assorted odds and ends about the history of Rohan and Gondor and the company of the White Riders, I looked at the fortress with new eyes.

It would be nice to sleep in a real bed again, if only for a night, I mused as I left the chambers that had been made ready for us. They were large, well appointed guest chambers. Fenmarch Fortress was quite big, and they were used to having many visitors and important guests. Chambers and baths had been ready when we arrived and now dinner was ready to be served. Dressed in my best travelling gown I followed Sorcha and a servant to the Great Hall. I had put down my foot against Ini's and Sorcha's suggestions to get out some real clothes. I knew how long it would take them to get one of the gowns stowed away in that chest ready for me to wear and how much longer it would take them to put everything into that chest again come morning. The commander of Fenmarch Fortress and indeed my husband would have to live with me in my best travelling dress for tonight. Dressing up could wait for Minas Tirith.

Dinner in Fenmarch Fortress turned out to be a nice surprise. The Great Hall was plain as Great Halls go, rough grey stonework, a few elaborate hangings depicting riders, riders and more riders, a huge fire place, a long, long table with benches at the sides and throne-like chairs on either end. Éomer got one of the thrones, the commander of the fortress the other. Those are the priorities in Rohan. Not that I minded. I preferred sitting next to my husband, really.

After dinner, the commander brought out a bottle of dwarvish whisky and Éomer produced his pipe. I managed not to raise my eyebrows at Éomer and was rewarded with a public kiss when I took my leave.

The pregnancy was certainly mellowing Éomer (if not me). I could not suppress a grin.

"I am going to get a bit of fresh air, a little walk and then head off to bed, _leofestan_," I told Éomer. He held my hands tightly, raised them to his lips, even. There was the oddest expression on his face, love, caring, and a bit of regret that he would not be able to join me for hours yet. "But take your guards, _meine Liebe_."

"Of course," I replied. Helmichis and Lunt were already waiting. "My lords, captain, I bid you good night."

The company of nobles, warriors, captain and king rose and everyone bowed to me. I indicated a curtsy and left the hall, wondering for a moment when all those mannerisms and courtly gestures had become natural to me.

Catching sight of a servant, I asked, "Could you show me the way to the garden, please? I want to take a walk."

The servant, an older man, bowed politely. "Of course, my lady."

**oooOooo**

It was a small rose garden. All castles and palaces seem to have a rose garden. It was a clear night, with an almost full moon and all the stars out. All around the garden the walls were set with sconces and brightly lit torches. The air was filled with the perfume of roses and lavender. A beautiful summer evening. Peaceful and soothing.

My guards kept as far back as concerns for my safety allowed, giving me as much privacy for my thoughts as possible. I sighed and stretched a bit. I was tired from the day's ride, however slow and leisurely it had been. It was good to be almost alone for a bit… at once I felt a smile creep up on my face. Not that I ever was alone, theses days. My hand moved to my stomach. "You are always with me, little one," I whispered.

A sound made me look up and I was barely able to suppress an annoyed sigh. I was not the only one who had sought refuge in the rose garden for a bit of peace and quiet. Elaine sat on a marble bench, hidden in the shadow of a slender tree.

"Good evening, my lady," the healer addressed me politely. "How are you? Not too tired, I hope?" Her expression seemed sombre, bordering on bitter, but that could have been the shadows of the evening, too. Her tone was professionally friendly and caring, as almost always.

"I am well, thank you. A bit tired, yes, but I feel very well. I don't think I feel anything but well, now that the morning sickness has passed. I did not see you there in the shadow, I am sorry if I disturbed you." I smiled at her, though of course in the dark she would not be able to see that smile. At least the smile made my voice sound friendly, too.

"No, my lady, you did not disturb me. Please, sit down. You are tired already, you should not keep on your feet so much."

What was I to do? I was in no mood yet to go to bed. So I thanked Elaine and sat down next to her. Sitting side by side in the warm darkness of the summer evening the reserved healer seemed more accessible then at other times. She always kept apart from the other members of the household. It was not that she was a difficult person, well, she was, but there was more to it. A sense of loneliness, perhaps? Of discontent?

"Would you tell me about the… country where you were born, my lady?" Elaine asked suddenly.

I turned around and stared at her, taken completely by surprise. "Why?" I asked nonplussed. "And what do you want to know?"

I realized with a pang that I had not thought about Germany in a long time. I had not even thought about my family there in a long time. Not even about my mother, whom I was going to make a grandmother in a few months' time… something she would probably never know… so caught up had I been in my happiness, my marriage, my new family and my new home.

"I don't know much about medicine… the healing arts," I added.

"No, it's not that so much that I am interested in," Elaine replied. "I would like to know… more about the way of living there. What your life would have been like, had you not come here."

Why did she want to know that? Would it be wise to tell her any details?

For a moment I stared into the darkness.

I had to trust Elaine. In fact, I _was_ trusting her with my life, and with the life of my unborn child. Then she probably deserved to be trusted with the answer to her question as well.

"Well…" I said finally and promptly trailed off, not knowing where to begin.

"When I went away, I was studying the laws of my country… I was studying to become… _ummm…_ something like Master Lamont, a lore master, and councillor."

"So you went to _school_ and then you were granted the privilege of tutors? The way you study the laws and customs of Rohan?" 'School' came out with a strange emphasis. The school at Edoras was up and running. After the initial hubbub about it, parents, pupils and teachers alike were now quite happy with the arrangement. I had not realized that Elaine had taken an interest in that school at all. Or that she paid much attention to what I was doing…

"_Ahem…_ no, not really. There are… places of lore where I grew up, for such studying. They are called universities. A bit like the school, only for advanced things… lore. Everyone can study there… that is, if you are smart enough." Somehow that explanation sounded so insufficient.

"And after your studies? What would you have done then?"

I shrugged. "Whatever… if I would have been good enough, I could have been a judge… or a lawyer… or a lore master myself… they need people versed in laws everywhere, in… _er…_ trading, building, everywhere… I would have found a job… a career…"

But as I sat there, staring into the dark twilight of the summer evening, my old world seemed to be so far away as to be nothing but a bad dream and my explanations sounded utterly meaningless.

But Elaine seemed to be able to make sense of my stammering. "Would you have married?"

I started at that question. _Would I have married… how **would** I have lived my life, had I not met a wizard that day in the green hills of Frankonia… if I had not met Éomer…_

I shivered. The thought of those endless, dreary possibilities of an unlived life that I had escaped by a hair's breadth shook me.

I gulped. "I don't know. If you fall in love and you feel like it, you marry; well, for the most part, I think. There are always exceptions. And in other countries it was different… But where I grew up, it was like that. If you fell in love, you could marry. But you did not have to. You could stay together, have children and all, without marrying. Or you could stay alone, on your own. As a matter of fact, not long before I left they even passed a law that homosexual couples could marry, too. Men who love men or women who love women."

There was a sharp intake of breath at my side, but no comment. For a long time, neither of us said anything. Around us, the only sounds were the crickets chirping in the garden around us. _And the wheels in my brain making meaningless clicking noises…_

Suddenly Elaine spoke again. There was a bitterness in her voice that frightened me a little. "I will never understand you, Lothíriel. You could have lived every life you wanted to live, and yet you chose to come here."

I felt my heart beating heavily in my chest, and once again, my hand crept to my stomach. I swallowed hard. _What if I had not followed that rainbow…_"This is the life I chose to live."

"And you are happy with it."

_What was there to say to that? _"Yes," I replied. "I am."

"It was the wizard you met? Who showed you the way?" Elaine asked, her voice a bit choked, as if she was trying to prevent her voice from betraying too much emotion.

"Yes, I met Gandalf when I went walking in the hills near the city where I grew up. And… he did something… and then there was this rainbow, and I followed it to its end, and then I was suddenly on the road to Bree."

"You followed a _rainbow_?" For the first time Elaine turned to me, astonishment and disbelief colouring her voice, her eyes were glittering in the light of moon and torches. Were there tears in her eyes?

It did sound rather stupid. This was the fifth time that I told my story and it still sounded ridiculous. I knew that I frowned and that I tilted my head stubbornly, a bit like a mule that won't be budged. "Well, yes," I repeated. "That's what I just said. I met a wizard. We talked about life and things… I think I said that I was looking for a real life…. And then there was this rainbow and when I came to its end, I was in the Shire. Near Bree."

"The wizard," Elaine repeated. "But he is gone, isn't he? He sailed with the Lady of Lórien and the Queen's father to the Undying Lands?"

Suddenly I realized just what Elaine had been asking.

I sat there, in the darkness, next to my lady-in-waiting, the best healer of Tarnost and Edoras and felt as if the wind had been knocked from my lungs. _Elaine was asking me for a way out of Middle-earth._

My thoughts were in a wild jumble. What could I say? What should I say? I probably said the worst thing that I could have said.

"I think you'd need a wizard. Or maybe Tom Bombadil. He is very powerful. And look, I have no idea, really, I have no idea why Gandalf brought me here. Maybe it was only because he knew that the other Lothíriel was dead. Maybe it was only because he knew that a Lothíriel was meant to be here, in this day and age. I have really no idea. And, you know… I really don't think we should talk about this much. It is such a weird story."

"Weird?"

I could hear her raised eyebrows. These days my way of speaking only very rarely drew attention. But this conversation had really unnerved me.

_And what if she went away and tried to find a wizard before I had my baby? I **needed **her!_

Cold panic flooded me. I drew a shuddering breath.

Suddenly I felt a warm hand on my arm. "Breathe slowly, Lothíriel. Calm and even. Yes, that's right. I hope you know that I will never to talk to anyone about where you came from. I hope you know that you can trust me."

I breathed deeply, following her advice. In. Out. Calm. Even.

"I will be there for you when your time comes with this child," Elaine said softly as if she had heard my thoughts. After a moment's pause she continued. "I had to leave Gondor. I refused a suitor. It was awkward. I am indebted to you."

"I never knew," I said, astonished, and feeling not a little stupid. Then I thought about what she had said. "For this child?"

Her face was pale in the moonlight and tense, her eyes pools of darkness.

"And then? Then you will go looking for a wizard?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Then I will go looking for a wizard."

She rose to her feet. "You should go to bed now, my lady."

Then she turned and was gone, in a swift rustle of long skirts and long strides. _Long, confident strides…_ too long and too confident for this world, perhaps.

**oooOooo**

Two days later Éomer, Númendil and I were following a guide on a narrow trail that led up the steep forested slopes of Halifirien Hill in winding serpentines.

Halifirien Hill, also known as Amon Anwar, hill of awe, is the last of the Gondorian beacon hills. On Halifirien Hill it is said was the tomb of Elendil before his remains were moved to Rath Dínen in Minas Tirith. On Halifirien Hill, Eorl the Young swore his allegiance to Gondor and was granted the province of Calenardhon as a kingdom in its own right. On Halifirien Hill, it is said, you can sometimes still see the eagles of Manwë circle above Middle-earth, a sign of hope that the Valar have not turned away from the race of men altogether. A hill of many songs and stories.

Éomer wanted to show this historic site to me. Therefore our company had left the Great West Road for a day and had come to Fort Firien, a small garrison in Firien Forest, similar to Fenmarch Fortress, only smaller.

The beacon hills of Gondor were guarded by Gondorian soldiers and what they call the Mountain Guard, a small company of mountain men serving the regular beacon garrisons as guides and aides. Customarily there were two soldiers and one of the Mountain Guard on duty at each beacon for three months in a row, and then they were relieved by another trio of two soldiers and a mountain guard. Apparently taking the turn as a beacon's guard was considered somewhat as a rite of passage among the young Gondorian soldiers, so almost every officer had served a term as a beacon's guard in his youth. They served a year, two turns up on the hill, two down in the garrison, then they got moved to another unit. But the men of the Mountain Guard stay.

An interesting arrangement, I thought. When our guide turned out to be one of the Mountain Guard, I was even more fascinated. It was plain to see that our guide, who introduced himself as Aren, was not of the same kind of people as the Gondorians or the Rohirrim. He was not tall and dark haired, nor tall and fair. It was not that he was small, perhaps average. But he lacked the long, graceful lines of built that so many Gondorians have, and many Rohirrim, too. He was… burly. Squat. His features were… different, too. A bit rough, perhaps? A broad nose and chin, flat cheekbones. Dark brown eyes and dark brown hair, more curly than straight. He reminded me a bit of the way Danso looked. And now that I thought about it, there was a hint of this kind of look in little Tally, too. So the mountain guards were actually what remained of the mountain people, those ancient tribes that had lived in the mountains and primeval forests of Gondor before the Númenoreans arrived, perhaps even before whatever people lived in Gondor when the Númenoreans put to shore again there, had come to settle there. People like the tribe of Ghân-buri-ghân… the forefathers of the Dunlendings…

I wondered what an anthropologist would make of the history of Middle-earth and its various peoples. Or what would be found if a team of archaeologists did an excavation up on Halifirien Hill. Though this was nothing that I would ever suggest for real… even if there had been any archaeologists in Middle-earth. I was too much in awe of the Hill of Awe.

But all of that did make for interesting thoughts as I followed Éomer up that hill.

Well, perhaps it was not quite a hill. A foothill of the Ered Nimrais was a pretty good mountain on its own. But it was, of course, a far cry from the snowy heights of the real mountain range of the White Mountains, where the snow never disappeared throughout the year. Elaine or Éomer would never have allowed me to climb a real mountain… I rolled my eyes at the thought of Éomer asking the healer at least three times if she was sure that it was alright for me to walk up to Halifirien Hill…

Suddenly we left the forest behind us.

It was still early in the morning, so the air was still quite cool. But already it was filled with the fragrance of mountain summer. Resin and herbs, stones and that hint of honey from the many flowers of the mountain meadows. Before us lay a long steep slope leading right up to the summit of Amon Anwar. It was rocky ground, with patches of grass and flower and blooming gorse.

"Ye have t' be carf'l where ye step, m'lady," Aren told me. There was a heaviness to his vowels and he had a tendency to slur the short words. He spoke the dialect of the mountain men and he did not bother to hide it.

"Yes, thank you, Aren," I said, a little breathlessly and stopped, taking a look around. In the sunshine, out of the shadows of the forest, the day was quickly getting warm. The sky above us was endless and so deeply blue that I felt I could drown in it.

"Are you alright, my love? Should we rest a bit?" Éomer turned to me, his hand reaching for my arm, squeezing lightly, his expression a bit worried.

I laughed at him. "Of course I am alright! Don't worry so much! I was just enjoying the view!"

He raised his eyebrows a little at that. I realized that for him "enjoying the view" would not be as natural a thing to do on a walk as it was for me… For him, as a commander and a warrior, the natural thing to do on a walk was to analyze his surroundings strategically… where to place a guard, where to watch for an attack…

We had talked about how much his being a warrior shaped his views and his reactions, how it was sometimes difficult for him to react as a king and not as a commander. It was at odd moments like this that I was reminded of how different we were, how much there was about us that the other would probably never really understand. And yet, we could love each other.

_Life is weird._

The path up to the summit of Amon Anwar was not difficult or dangerous. It was only narrow and rocky and winding. You had to watch your feet. After a while of slow walking, my thoughts grew calm. My heartbeat and breath became tuned to the rhythm of my steps. The clear, sweet air of summer, the birdsong around me and the buzzing of bees and flies… I felt as if a magical spell was beginning to take hold.

Suddenly we were on the summit.

I gasped with astonishment. I had thought that the legend about Elendil's grave being on top of Amon Anwar had only been that: a legend. But here in front of me was something. Actually, I could even assign it a scientific name. It was a dolmen, a structure of standing stones where at least one of the slabs was placed horizontally over the others. In front of me was an ancient monument of rough stones. They were nearly man-high, and one of the huge slabs of stones was placed over them as a flat top.

The summit of Amon Anwar was flat and covered with short green grass. To the northern end of the plateau, the ground rose a little. There, a foundation of dry stones had been erected, and on top of it was a pile of wood, stacked together in a square. The beacon of Amon Anwar. Gazing at the beacon and the dolmen, I realized that they were aligned: beacon, standing stones – and, I followed that line of vision to the high peaks of the Ered Nimrais to the south, the highest peak of the Firien massive, mount Halygfirien. For a moment I wondered what where the shadow of the dolmen would point on midsummer's day, or exactly what you would see standing in front of the beacon…

"'Tis said that the old ones could stand 'ere and see all th' way to th' Argonath… them that still had the sharp sight of th' older days," Aren said.

I caught myself just in time and prevented an untimely exclamation of "wow". Instead I cleared my throat and replied, lightly, "Interesting. They must have had eyes like an eagle."

Éomer took my hand. "Come, my love. I will show you where our kingdom was made."

He led me to the space between the beacon and the dolmen.

"Here," he said, his eyes lit to a bright amber by the summer sun, his hair bleached almost to gold by the fortnight outdoors in the sunshine. His voice was filled with awe, but he allowed me to hold his hand. "Here, Eorl the Young swore his oath to Cirion, and Cirion gave his pledge of friendship and aid. Here, Calenardhon became Rohan. Here our home was shaped."

I looked at the standing stones in front of me and tried to imagine the blond young man of the tapestries of the Golden Hall, tall and proud and handsome, his long hair flowing in the wind… lifting his hand to swear the oath that had made Rohan a kingdom in its own right, more than five hundred years ago.

After a long moment of silence I stepped into Éomer's embrace. "Thank you for bringing me here," I whispered. Then he kissed me and I felt enveloped in love and in the quiet blessing that lived on in this hallowed place.

**oooOooo**

Twelve days later we arrived in Minas Tirith.

I had to admit that I felt tired after this journey of more than three weeks and the days ride from the Grey Wood to the city. As I retreated to the latrine, I was thinking only of three things: relieving myself, a bath and a bed.

I pulled down my trousers.

For a moment, what I saw did not even register.

Then I heard my voice as if from far away. A panicky whisper.

"I'm bleeding."

There was a rushing sound in my ears, as I screamed,

"Elaine, Sorcha, I'm bleeding!"

Then everything went dark.

**oooOooo**

**A/N: **I hope you enjoy this chapter. I have worked on it on and off for almost a week. I would really appreciate any comment at all, especially about the nursery rhyme.

That song cost me a ton of nerves, a day of my life, and would have turned some hairs grey if I had not had the help of two wonderful beta-readers, Aranel Took and Arandil. Thank you again!

I hope that you also liked what has been revealed about the mystery of Elaine. But don't worry, she will stay mysterious! Elaine, even though now some of her reactions _should_ be easier to understand in retrospect.

Chapter 100 will be out in a week or so.

Yours  
Juno


	100. Reaching for a Golden Future

**100. Reaching for a Golden Future**

_My womb felt as if it was filled with rocks, heavy and painful, jarring the tender flesh from the inside out and dragging me down into the deepest pits of despair. I stepped to the window, but the thick round pieces of glass set into frames of lead allowed barely a glimpse outside. I was caught in dim green twilight. I raised my hand to the glass and traced the round frames…My hand was heavy, my movements slow and sluggish. My child was dead… dead before he was ever born… and all that was left of my joy was a feeling of rocks in my womb…Tears began rolling down my cheeks. I felt them on my skin, running down at the side of my nose, gathering in droplets at the corners of my mouth. Then the tears turned into sobs and suddenly I was shaking, convulsing in an agony of grief. I sank down on my knees, watching as if from far away how my outstretched hands slid down the window panes. I collapsed on the floor, weeping as I had never wept before…_

I woke from the sound of weeping. I opened my eyes and only dimly realized that I had woken from the sound of my own weeping. I blinked against the tears filling up my eyes and tried to make sense of my surroundings.

_The child! The blood!_

Wildly my hand reached down to my stomach – but was caught by another hand, before I could touch the soft swell of my womb. With my heart racing and nausea rising up in a sour wave of bile I was suddenly wide awake.

Elaine sat at my bed and held my hand.Her face was calm and composed.I gulped for breath, wishing I had never even opened my eyes.I could not bring myself to say anything; I only stared at the healer silently.

"Are you awake now? Lothíriel? Do you hear me? Do you understand what I am saying?" She held my hand tightly.

I nodded mutely, tears still flowing down my cheeks.

"Everything is alright."

I stared at her. I felt my mouth drop open.

She repeated slowly, "Everything is alright. You are fine. Your baby is fine. Do you understand me? You are healthy. The baby is healthy. There is nothing to worry about."

_Everything was alright? But there had been blood! Blood! There ought to be no blood when you are pregnant, even I knew that much!_

"But… but… the blood…" My voice seemed to come from far away and the nausea was growing so strong that I felt dizzy with it.

"There was only a little blood, only a bit of a brown smudge. That is entirely normal, especially for someone who is very active – as you are, riding from Edoras to Minas Tirith. It is only dangerous when the blood is bright red and when there is pain. You are a bit excitable, and you tire more easily than you are used to. You have to take care not to overdo things and stay calm. That is all. There is really nothing to worry about," Elaine told me, watching me closely.

"Everything is alright with you and your child," she repeated again, calmly, soothingly.

Suddenly the knot of agony and anxiety inside me burst into another bout of sobbing, with the sobs turning into heaves as my stomach convulsed. Elaine quickly reached out and turned me to the side of the bed, where a bucket had been placed in foresight. Elaine held me and stroked my hair back as I wretched an unspeakable mess into the bucket, and she kept holding me as I collapsed into a heap after the heaving finally subsided.

After a while, Elaine made me gargle with a bit of water and then drink a few swallows. The water tasted horrible, tepid and a bit salty. But it did help to settle my stomach. Afterwards she gently helped me to lie down on my back again and gently placed my hand on the soft round of my stomach.

"There, reassure the heir of Rohan that everything is fine… I am going to get you a bit of broth. You need to eat and calm down. Your husband is waiting outside. Do you want to see him?"

I nodded weakly. "Yes, please."

I felt too exhausted to even feel sorry or embarrassed for my overreaction. My only thoughts were about my baby… that my baby was safe, that he would not die…

At the mere thought my eyes filled with tears again. I closed my eyes tightly. _I would not cry again. Everything was fine. I was fine. The baby was fine._

But then the door opened and Éomer entered the room, looking thoroughly dishevelled and very pale. He was at my side and I was in his arms within seconds, enveloped in his warm, spicy scent and his strong embrace, my harbour of safety in this world, in this life. I cried again. But comforted and soothed by his closeness, these were silent tears and with each tear that soaked into his white linen shirt the horror of my fear and my nightmare subsided.

**oooOooo**

When I woke again, my sister-in-law was with me. She sat in a high backed chair next to my bed, her legs stretched out, a very round and ripe belly thrust out, her eyes closed.

The sight of her pregnant body, cocooning a baby almost ready to be born, I was instantly awake. For a moment my thoughts were a horrified jumble, but then I remembered and exhaled deeply.

_It was only a dream. Only a dream!_

As my heartbeat slowed down again, I watched my sister-in-law. Relief turned into mirth. Suddenly I felt many small giggles bubbling up inside of me at the sight of the proud shield maiden and White Lady of Ithilien stretched out so ignominiously. I shook my head.

It had been too long since I had seen her the last time! Almost _a year_!

I sat up in my bed. For a moment I felt hesitant about disturbing her rest and incredibly embarrassed at my collapse and slightly hysterical behaviour. But then I gathered my courage and smiled at her. "Éowyn!"

Éowyn slowly opened her eyes. For a moment she looked decidedly grumpy at being disturbed, but then she looked at me searchingly for a moment, the expression on her face one of deep concern. Then, apparently satisfied with her scrutiny, she smiled back at me. A brilliant, a radiant smile.

"Lothy, you sleepy-head! Finally awake, are you? How do you feel?" She looked pointedly at the floor next to my bed.

I followed her gaze. A new bucket was placed next to my bed. I rolled my eyes at her.

"I don't think so. No," I paused for a moment, trying to assess how I really felt, now that I had calmed down. Finally I decided that I felt good: rested and almost peaceful. But I had lost track of the time. "I feel fine. Really. But I have no idea how long I slept… what day is it?"

Éowyn raised her eyebrows at me. "Are you sure? Arwen always said that… and then she puked all over the place. And it is Menelya, the 27th of Cermië. And I wish this Prince of Ithilien would stop kicking." She arched her back and rubbed her hands in soothing, circular motions over her rounded midsection. The dark memory of fear and a nightmare made me swallow dryly. My own hand involuntarily made the journey down to my own barely swelling stomach. My child was fine. My little prince… they would be really close in age, I realized, my baby and Éowyn's. _A prince of Ithilien and a prince of Rohan, born within months of each other… _

"Do you think they will like each other? They'll be so close in age…" I asked hopefully and immediately felt rather stupid.

But Éowyn laughed only. "Well, the present Prince of Ithilien and the King of Rohan get along well enough, so I should think there's some hope that their respective offspring will do the same." She groaned at another kick delivered by the baby inside her womb. "My, but he is active today…" She shook her head at her belly. Then she turned her attention back to me. "You are supposed to stay in bed for another day, just to make sure. Now, there's nothing to worry about, so don't. This is more to reassure my panicky brother than that it is necessary for your or the baby's health. Tonight we get to have dinner with the king and the queen – without the girls, I hope… so you won't be missing anything. And for meeting the squirrels Aragorn calls his daughters you really should be well rested."

"Squirrels?" I stared at Éowyn, mirth bubbling up inside me again. Éowyn's brisk manner and quirky humour had not changed during the year we had not seen each other. Like her brother she was not big on writing letters and those she did write were rather formal. It was good to see her again!

"Well," she barely managed to hide her grin. "They are just as lively as a couple of squirrels. And they do have sharp teeth. So when you get to meet them, make sure that your fingers don't get too close to their mouths."

"I can't wait to meet them," I said, smiling happily at my sister-in-law.

"That's what you say now…" was her reply – but she winked at me as she said that. Then she heaved herself to her feet, a slow, cumbersome movement that seemed out of place for the strong and graceful shield maiden. But with barely two months to go, Éowyn was quite heavy and obviously her centre of gravity was not where it had been. A glare from bright grey eyes made me swallow any comment of question I might have wanted to utter.

"I'll go see about some breakfast for you. I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Thank you." I said, already feeling silly lying in bed with my stomach still mostly flat, while Éowyn was up and about in spite of such obvious discomfort. But before I could say anything else, the door closed behind my friend.

**oooOooo**

I have no idea how I managed to feel sleepy again just after breakfast, but Éowyn simply smiled and told me to take a nap – and assured me that she would do the same.

I shared a quiet lunch with Sorcha and Elaine. Although I wanted to meet my family from Dol Amroth, Arwen and Aragorn, somehow I felt hesitant, almost apprehensive about meeting them after my… _Collapse? Hysterics?_ So I was glad for a quiet lunch, with no real conversation, but a shared, comfortable silence.

And guess what… after lunch, I was tired again. Elaine actually ordered me to take another nap. I contemplated arguing with her: somehow I felt it was my duty to get up now and meet the others, Faramir, Míriël and Imrahil, Arwen, Aragorn and their daughters. But even as I opened my mouth to argue, I was overwhelmed by a huge yawn. Perhaps I was even a little grateful for another few hours' of respite.

As I drifted off to sleep, I hoped that one day I would become normal again.

**oooOooo**

When I woke from my third extended nap that day, it was early evening. The light that flooded the white stones of the floor was tinged in a delicate hue of pink. The windows were open and the soft breeze that always blew on the topmost circle of the city moved the almost sheer blue drapes that were drawn in front of the window openings.

My eyes felt a little gritty from sleeping almost all day long, but my head was clear and the memory of the nightmare and my fright had faded into a distant shadow in my mind. I sat up and swung my legs around. The bed was one of those queenly ones, so high that my feet did not reach the floor when I sat with my knees at the edge of the bed. Sitting like this I suddenly felt small again, almost childlike. My traitorous hand sneaked down to my midsection. Was it only imagination, or had I become considerably plumper during our leisurely ride to Minas Tirith? How would it be, to have a son or daughter sitting next to me on a high bed like this, take the hand of my child and jump to the floor – daringly and laughing all the time?

Somewhere a bell tolled. Soon it would be time for dinner.

I hopped off the bed and padded over to the huge wardrobe in the adjoining room. I opened one door after the other. All our clothes were here, tidily pressed and whatever it was you could do to clothes to make them look neat and smelling fresh. I chose a comfortable outfit, cream-coloured shirt and loose mint-green tunic delicately embroidered in thousands of leaves and rosebuds. Once again I was grateful that while it was perhaps not the most usual women's attire, trousers as part of the female wardrobe were not frowned upon. I swept my hair up in a simple knot and was ready to go.

Getting ready all on my own for once. I smiled to myself. It happened perhaps once a week or so that I got the chance to have my "morning routine" or the winding down time of an evening all to myself. I knew that it was catering to the quirks of the young queen and not what my ladies-in-waiting and maidservants thought was appropriate. But I luxuriated in those few mornings and evenings I had to myself – with no one fussing over hair, health or dresses. Just as I wanted to turn away and leave the dressing room, my sight caught on a golden circlet that had been laid out on top of a large chest, beneath the only mirror of the room. I suppressed a sigh. I did recognize a hint when I saw one. Sometimes. Could I pretend that I had missed that circlet?

I frowned. Probably not. I picked it up and carefully placed on my head. At least it was my favourite crown-like jewellery. Light and gold and genuinely Rohirric, crossing and re-crossing strands of gold, so that it looked as if it had been braided.

There. Finally ready to go.

My thin leather slippers barely made a noise as I walked through the bedroom to the door. Outside two guards in the black and white livery of the Citadel bowed to me. I gave them a smile and tried to get my bearings. And failed. I had never stayed in the guest quarters of the Citadel before, and while we undoubtedly had the very best of the guest apartments, I had no idea how to get from here to the where I was supposed to go.

_Oh rats._

I turned to the guards. "Please, could you indicate the way to where the King and Queen and my husband are most likely to be at the moment?"

The older of the guards at once stepped forwards smartly and bowed deeply. "That will be in the Sun Room, my lady." I must have frowned, for he went on to explain.

"It is the hall above the Tower Hall. At the Queen's request it has been turned into a hall for smaller dinners of state, banquets and the like. If I may show you the way, my lady?"

It would be smarter to allow him to show me the way. It would be thing a queen of Rohan ought to do. But wanted to be alone for a little while longer… I wanted to savour the return to Minas Tirith.

"No, thank you," I said lightly. "I think I can find my way. We're in the Great Guesthouse, right?" Slowly the outlay of the Seventh Circle of Minas Tirith returned to me. The Great Guesthouse was the palace south of the White Tower, where all the visiting dignitaries were accommodated.

"Yes, my lady. The main stairs are at the end of this floor."

I smiled and nodded. "Thank you."

He stepped back and I turned around, walking to the end of a broad corridor. Tapestries on the left showed scenes of Gondorian mythology, large windows on the right flooded the length of the corridor with soft evening light. The only sound was my light leather-soled steps on the red carpet. Guards don't breathe and don't move when on duty. They look as if made of stone. I could never be a guard. At the end of the corridor another set of guards bowed to me. As I stepped out into the staircase, I remembered dimly how Bergil had shown me around the Seventh Circle of Minas Tirith during my first visit here. We had been given the best apartments in the Great Guesthouse, on the first floor, facing east, running across the whole side of the palace. _Well, that was probably a visiting king's and friend's due. _

I could go weeks, no, months by now, without ever thinking about where I had come from three years ago. But sometimes, the knowledge of that other world out there somewhere, that world that I had escaped from to find a true home and love here, in this world… sometimes that knowledge was suddenly and overwhelmingly present – the knocking the wind out of me and making me gasp kind of present. I felt the need to jump on the stair, to jar my body with the impact of jumping. I felt the need of hitting the elaborate masonry of the stair's rail, to make sure that all this was real… that I was real.

But I did not. The guards that waited at the large ebony doors in front of me would have probably thought me slightly mad for it. Instead I acknowledged their bows with a polite inclination of my head and waited for them to open the heavy doors for me and bow again, holding the doors open for me. _Another reason why I would never be any good as a guard. I would never manage bowing and holding a heavy, two-man high door open without falling flat on my face._

Then the doors closed softly behind me. I inhaled deeply. The air was gentler here than in Edoras, though the height of the Seventh Circle of the city added always a hint of mountainy crispness to the taste of the air. The evening sunlight was more golden outside, though as I looked up at the white peak of the Mindolluin, pink reflections flickered on the glacier already. Somewhere a blackbird was singing its heart out at the peaceful summer evening.

I inhaled deeply and allowed myself a soft sigh of "Oh my", as my gaze trailed the white spire of the Tower of Ecthelion from its wide base to its elegantly tapering top. My heartbeat quickened as I recognized the flags curling in the breeze up above. Aragorn's black and silver. Faramir's white banner. The galloping horse of Rohan, bright green and red. And the blue and white of the swan and ship of Dol Amroth.

We were here once again.

_Lothy, you horrible sap,_ I scolded myself and started for the White Tower.

**oooOooo**

When I had almost reached the square in front of the White Tower with its great white flagstones and the impressive white stairs leading up to the Throne Hall, the sound of low laughter stopped me in my tracks. The laughter was deep, rough at the edges, but sweet as honey at the centre – and familiar beyond any other laughter in the universe. _Éomer!_

I walked forward slowly. For some reason I did not want to intrude on whatever made him laugh like that. Luckily, a large bush of flowering red roses grew at the edge of the way, hiding my presence from Éomer and whoever else was standing there between the tower, the fountain and the white tree. If I was careful, I would be able to see who was there, and perhaps be able to discern what had made my husband laugh before revealing myself and possibly destroying the cheerful mood with my presence.

Peeking cautiously around the corner, I got a good view of the three most powerful and – looking at them from my hiding place like that, I could not help but notice – probably also the three best looking men in Middle-earth.

Aragorn had gotten rid of his beard. He looked younger that way. He was also paler than I remembered him, as if he had seen more council chambers than sunshine during this summer. His dark hair curled softly down to just above his shoulders, shining and well-groomed. His clothes were kept in black and silver. By now I knew enough about fabrics to know that his outfit was worth a fortune. I could not help but give a little sigh. Even the rather modest queenly attire that I wore at the moment would – converted into foodstuffs – feed a poor Rohirric or Dunlending family for a few months.

However, it was not just the lack of a beard and the pretty clothes and cleanly combed hair that was different about Aragorn. There was a softness to his features that I did not remember. A twinkle in his eyes, a warmth to his smile…

I smiled to myself. Marriage obviously agreed with the King of Gondor.

Faramir looked older than I remembered him. When I had first met him, he had seemed to be a younger, softer version of his dead brother. Now the haunted softness was gone from his features, replaced by a demeanour of calm authority sweetened with lines of laughter at the corners of his eyes and around his wide lips. He wore his hair longer than most Gondorian men, almost Rohirric style. To please Éowyn?

Although it had been Éomer's laughter that had alerted me to their presence, my husband was the least cheerful of the trio. There were shadows under his eyes. It was obvious to me that he was tired – and more: he looked shaken. I bit down on my lip. It had not been my intention to worry everyone so much. But when I had seen the blood… a cold shiver ran down my spine with the memory… I had felt as if my whole world was crumbling down around me… I clenched my hands into fists, forcing back the newly rising emotional turmoil.

_It's only hormones, Lothy…_I told myself and forced myself to take a few gentle, calming breaths. In. Out. _Go with the flow…_

This time Aragorn's voice caught my attention.

"…they change us, our women. There's nothing to do about it." Aragorn clasped Éomer around the shoulders in a brief gesture of comfort. "Once the heart is well and truly given, nothing stays the same. You should have seen me during Arwen's pregnancy…"

Éomer gave his wry grin, raising his left eyebrow a little. "I remember, my friend. I was with you a time or two. I can't say the experience made me look forward to the nine months of waiting for my own child to be born."

Faramir's low chuckle said more than words. Then the Steward squeezed Éomer's shoulder comfortingly. "I am glad that everything turned out the way it did. Lothíriel and the babe are healthy. All will be well. And at least your wife is normally not as… _er…_" Faramir realized only at the last moment that he was speaking to the brother of his wife – a renowned warrior who just might take offence even at his brother-in-law speaking less than respectful about his sister.

But Éomer just laughed, his dark and merry laugh, releasing his tension and thumped Faramir's shoulder right back – with a resounding smack that made the Steward wince a little. "Hot-headed, maybe? Volatile? A shrew, at times? She is all that and more. You have the measure of your wife quite accurately by now, then. And so you should. But praytell, my friend, would you have her any other way?"

For a moment, the three of them were silent. Faramir's gaze was distant, but filled with a warmth beyond the beauty of this summer's evening.

"No," he finally said. "Even if I could change her, I would not. She is smart and brave and strong. She's my courage; she's the one who healed my heart when I thought it wasted and barren for good. But –" he heaved a sigh, "sometimes I do wish she'd be a little more careful in her endeavours. Little did I know that her interest in the arts of healing would extend to training a unit for rescuing wounded soldiers from the battle-field."

Éomer snorted. "Yes, that does sound like Éowyn. She was always able to turn occupations proper for a young maiden into an adventure. I should be grateful that my Lothy's only wreaking havoc with the narrow-minded loremasters of Rohan." Suddenly serious, he continued, "She is not only wife to the king, she is the queen Rohan needs. With her at my side I can lead Rohan into a golden future. And that is more than I ever dreamed of in my most adventurous dreams."

"We are indeed blessed in our wives," Aragorn agreed. He touched his forehead with his palms turned up to the sky, a gesture of gratitude to the One up above. "But I do hope that the next pregnancy will agree with Arwen a bit more than the last. A faint and a fright is not the worst that a pregnancy can do to the otherwise gentle disposition of a woman…"

I winced and decided quickly to come out of hiding. Although I felt incredibly touched by what I had overheard, I did not want to listen to any other confessions that were meant to be kept between the three friends.

"Good evening," I called out and quickly walked around the corner. In an unusual display of public affection, Éomer came to meet me in three long strides, catching me in a careful, but tight embrace, even kissing me low on the cheek, close to my right ear, predictably making me gasp. Releasing me, he offered me his arm and led me to Aragorn and Faramir.

I was already dropping into the curtsy that courtesy required when presented to the King of Arnor and Gondor. Rohan might be a sovereign kingdom, but the oath of fealty and the fact that we were in Gondor, not in Rohan demanded a proper curtsy no matter that I was a queen in my own right. But before I was able to bend my knees, Aragorn had caught me at the elbows and raised me up again. "No need for that, Lothy. We've come too far." His eyes were warm and kind, lit with a smile. "I am glad to see you well!"

I smiled back. "I am glad that I am well, too."

This was surely the underestimation of the century. But I guess he knew what I meant.

Faramir greeted me with a quick embrace. "Éowyn will be with us shortly," he said. "She needs more time getting dressed at the moment than she is used to…"

I winced. Éowyn was not a friend of spending a lot of time with mirrors and gowns. She was worse than I was regarding female frills and frivolity. I could see easily how the width of her mid-section would make dressing up more difficult for her at the moment. Something that would not improve her temper…

Éomer's hand tightened on my arm. "I don't mind waiting for my sister. She's entitled, in her condition." Then he whispered to me, "Same as you are, my love, so stop looking so worried."

"They are always entitled," Aragorn put in only half in jest.

At that moment, someone who had been standing at the edge of the fountain turned around and began walking towards us. A slender figure in flowing white gowns, crowned with dark braids and a _mithril_ circlet. Arwen. And she was holding something in her arms that looked heavy and awkward. Something? Or rather someone. No, two someones, in fact. As she walked towards us, her heavy burden was quickly recognizable as two squirming baby-girls with dark curls and brilliant silver eyes – and ears that were just a little pointy at the tips.

"They are entitled," the king of Gondor repeated softly, almost to himself. "Because they bear a golden future."

I felt Éomer nod in agreement, as he put his arm around my waist.

_Why do I always have to blush like an embarrassed tomato?_

**oooOooo**

**A/N (1): **It is not dangerous to bleed a little during pregnancy. For the time being Lothy & Elfwine are safe and sound. evil grin

Cermië August

Menelya Friday

**oooOooo**

**A/N (2): **Chapter 100. Finally.

Due to real life circumstances, this chapter is very late. I am so sorry!

For the future, if you are waiting desperately for a chapter, have a look at my LiveJournal now and again. I post about the progress I make and sometimes even some sneak-previews of my WIPs there. Feel free to comment there, too, signed or anonymously. That way I can easily answer any questions you might have. The link to my LJ is on my profile at FFNet.

For the rest:

I never, ever dreamed to reach chapter 100. Now I am here at the end of chapter 100, and there are about 20 more chapters to write.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank you, my readers and my reviewers.

Thank you for staying with me. Thank you for your many encouraging comments and your constructive and friendly criticism.

Thank you!

Yours  
JunoMagic


	101. Babies and Butterflies

**A/N: "**The Tree and Tavern", "The Rose Garden" and "The Laughing Oliphaunt" belong to Aeneid and her wonderful story "Adraefan", which can be found at the Henneth Annûn Story Archive. The general outline of Minas Tirith used in this chapter is from the atlas of Karen Wynn-Fonstad, who has recently passed on. I greatly admire her work. The fandoms of both LOTR and Pern will miss her very much.

**oooOooo**

**101. Babies and Butterflies**

"You hold her against your shoulder and softly pat her on the back," Arwen advised me. Arwen was holding little Celair in her arms. Celair was deeply, contentedly asleep. Celu, propped up against my shoulder, had a very red face; her eyes were pressed together in angry slits and she was most definitely not asleep. At least she was not yet howling with fury. How her sister could sleep with the ruckus this tiny bundle of half-elven was making, was a complete mystery to me.

On the other hand: her father had managed to ignore the direst circumstances during the travels of the Fellowship in order to snatch a bit of sleep. Celu's temperament had to come from somewhere else then. I sat and patted the small, warm back. Promptly, a tiny, irascibly waving fist was knocked at my temple. Celu might be only eight months old. But she packed quite a punch.

"Ouch," I growled under my breath and glared at Éowyn who was excused any auntie-duties due to the now considerable girth of her belly. My own midsection was swelling sweetly, too, though with the formal dresses that I wore most of the time at Minas Tirith I would not show for some months yet. Apart from my breasts, perhaps, which had indeed ripened in a way that a visit to Darla of the Golden Scissors had been necessary for some adjustments to my wardrobe. Much to the delight of my husband, I might add.

Éowyn watched the scene with eyes that were crinkling up with mirth. Arwen remained unmoved, only softly rocking little Celair in her arms. Celair made a small snuffling sound and turned towards her mother, pressing her rose-bud mouth against Arwen's breast. Her dark hair was tousled, revealing an almost translucent, delicately pointed ear that was still pink from the effort of nursing. Arwen groaned a little. Although the twins had only just had their fill of mother's milk, Celair's mouth pressed against her breast had instantly drenched the gown of the queen with an outburst of fluid again. Not much, but enough to show an erect nipple straining to meet the mouth of the sleeping infant in a dark, wet circle. A shiver ran down my back and I felt my own nipples tingle in a strange, instinctive response at the sight. But I had not much time to wonder at how deeply those primal drives of caring and nursing are rooted in our biological make-up, be we elves or men, because Celu was not at all happy with her present position at my shoulder and showed that as violently as she could.

Enough was enough. Holding her with my hands under her arms, I held her out on my lap in front of me. The baby positively glared at me in a silvery-grey stare that was strangely familiar. The girls might have the beauty of their mother and her pointy ears, too. But the cast of their features was all Aragorn. Thinking back to a rather memorable shouting match with Strider one evening in Lórien three years ago, I arrived quickly at the conclusion that we had probably also to thank their father for this volatile temperament. Not that they were not the sweetest little babies for most of the time. Because they were. Except when they were not.

"Look here, little one," I told the tiny half-elven on my lap. "I know that I am not your mother or your favourite auntie. But look, your sister is very tired and asleep on your mother's lap. Your auntie can't take you because she has her own baby to take care of. So you are stuck with me. And no, your _ada_ can't take you either at the moment. He has to be king and do king-things right now. So, please calm down! If you are not tired yet, we can play a bit."

I realized that eight months were probably a little young for that explanation. But I was beginning to feel fed up with little Celu's attitude. I favoured Arwen who had a hard to time to hide her grin with a glare of my own. But to my immense surprise little Celu's features suddenly relaxed. For a very weird moment I had the feeling that she had understood exactly what I had said. But she also gave a soft burp, so maybe she had only needed another position to get rid of the air she had swallowed along with the milk. Now she smiled at me and waved her pudgy arms at the flower bed to my right.

We were sitting on one of the benches surrounding the fountain in front of the White Tower.

A promise was a promise. I sighed. With an envious look at sleeping Celair, I asked, "Is it okay if she picks apart your roses?"

Arwen laughed in a low voice, clearly taking care not to disturb the sleeping beauty on her lap. "I don't think she's a real danger to them yet. Go ahead, but take care with the thorns."

"Sure thing," I hoisted Celu up against my shoulder once more and rose from my seat. "Let's go and have a look at Mama's roses, shall we? Just the two of us."

I walked over to the nearest flower bed and narrowed my eyes at the roses. No, there did not seem to be any nasty thorns on the flowers closest to us. For a moment I considered squatting gracefully, but uncomfortably, in the dirt of the garden path. Then I thought what the hell and simply knelt down on the ground. I positioned Celu in front of me, so that she could reach the roses, but that I could see what she reached for before she did. Soon the air was filled with the delicate scent of roses of Imloth being plucked apart by tiny fingers and the merry warble of a baby's laughter. From behind me I heard the gentle splashing of the fountain and the voices of Arwen, Éowyn and Elaine in quiet conversation.

Next year, I mused, next year, probably round about the same time I would be sitting in the garden of the Golden Hall of Meduseld, amusing a baby of my very own in this manner. My heartbeat quickened at the thought and I felt butterfly wings of excitement flutter in my stomach.

"Yes, that is a beautiful red rose, my sweet. And this one is white. And look, a butterfly!"

_A butterfly?_

Again there was this tiny flickering feeling in my stomach.

In my stomach?

Freeing my right hand from Celu's grasp I worked my hand under my dress to touch the soft swelling of my belly. Nothing to feel from the outside. Only the warm, rounding flesh.

But there it was again!  
Butterfly wings inside me! Bubbles of too much coca-cola burbling up inside me when I had not drunk any!_  
And again!_

And then, nothing. Only a sense of peace and wonder.

I sat there in the sunshine, little Celu in front of me warbling at the rose blossoms in her hands, with my hand resting on my stomach hidden by the fabric of my summer dress and a huge smile on my face.

My baby had moved!  
My baby had moved inside me for the very first time!  
He was really there! Inside me!

He was really there, living and growing, until one day he would look at me wonderingly, out of round dark eyes that would be just as beautiful and trusting as Celu's were.

**oooOooo**

A family dinner.

A real, big family dinner. Something that I had never experienced before, growing up with my eccentric mother and my solitary step-father.

We would be quite a big company tonight: _Ada_ and Míri, Elphir and his betrothed, Númendil, Meluir as well as Éowyn and Faramir, Elaine, Éomer and I. As I was waiting for Éomer to be happy with the arrangement of his warrior braids, I went over the names of my Middle-earth family in my mind.

_Imrahil_ – still the mere thought that there was a man I could call father in this world was almost enough to bring tears to my eyes.

_Míri_ – friend and almost-mother, the mother I had never had, yet longed for guiltily.

_Elphir_ – sombre, least known brother of my Middle-earth-family, and his betrothed: no more than a smile of green-grey eyes, a curtsy and a name, Golothwen.

_Númendil_ – little brother and ally in the foreign lands, hero, too, since the last war, page to my lover and my husband, the daily miracle of growing up, right in front of my eyes.

_Meluir_ – now on the verge of boyhood and not a child any longer; he would join the ranks of the pages at the Guard of the Citadel this autumn. He was young for it, but the training master was willing to take him on after testing him thoroughly. An honour for Mel and all of the family.

_Éowyn_ – sister-in-law and trusted friend, soon-to-be mother of a child that would be so close to my own in age and station.

_Faramir_ – the gentler of the brothers; but how long would it take for that shadow of darker eyes and a face that was a little blunter, a demeanour that was just a little fierce to fade out of mind and memory?

_Elaine_ – still distant, still mysterious, though closer to me now that I knew of her unhappiness. And the one whom I trusted with my life and the life of my unborn child.

_And Éomer?_  
What was there to say about the love of my life?  
Except that he was obviously still not happy with the way his carefully weaved warrior braids looked?

I kept comfortably pondering the plans of the evening, knowing better than to comment on or interfer with, my husband's efforts to look his very best without the help of a female touch.

Míriël had at first raised her eyebrows disapprovingly at her husband, when _Ada_ had suggested that we go out to dinner, and to a public house on top. But Faramir had quickly reassured her that "The Tree and Tavern" was up to the highest standards.  
It was a public house on the sixth circle, right by the gate to the fifth circle. Éomer knew it, too. "It's quite the upscale _gesthús_. The guards of the Citadel go there, as well as many nobles. I have been there more than once, with Boromir before the war and then this year with Faramir and some of our captains."

The way he said _"upscale"_ made me grin. It sounded so definitely not his style. I tried to think back to the halcyon days after Cormallen, when I had stayed in that white villa with the rest of the Fellowship. _There had been some nights that I had sneaked away from the watchful eyes of Míriël for some ale in pleasant company… _

"I think 'The Rose Garden' or 'The Laughing Oliphaunt' would be more your kind of places," I winked at him.

Éomer frowned at me. "And how come, my lady, I pray thee, that you know those establishments from more than their names?"

For a moment I tried to stay serious. But then the general spirit of cheerfulness broke through in a bright giggle. _Chalk that up to the pregnancy hormones, _I thought. _I'm entitled to some silly behaviour!_

Out loud I replied, trying for a wicked grin and keeping my voice level at the same time, "Well, those weeks after Cormallen, when you went a-hunting with those elves and the other warriors, my lord, you know, I had to do something in the evenings… pining for a man is amusing only for so many nights!"

I could not wait to tell him about the tiny fluttering I had felt this afternoon. But I wanted to have peace and quiet for that and not be almost on the way to have a nice, relaxed family dinner in a nice, friendly pub…

A knock sounded on the door.

"Are you ready, my lord? My lady?" That was Elaine, sent to alert us that it was time to leave.

Outside the palace we were met by the rest of the family, with Faramir and Éowyn seated in a white buggy drawn by a dun mare of clearly Rohirric origin, though of course not one of the nobler breeds. Éowyn was too heavy now to walk down to the pub, although it was not far, just down through the tunnel to the sixth circle of the city and then to the gate to the fifth circle. But Éowyn's back and her hips were aching something horrible with this late stage of her pregnancy, especially in the evening. However, in spite of her discomfort she had refused to stay behind for tonight's dinner. Therefore Éowyn and Faramir were up on that buggy and we others got to walk.

I ignored Éowyn's scowl. Instead I accepted Éomer's proffered arm. Lightly placing my hand in the crook of his arm I allowed myself to be led towards the carved white marble of the gate that led from the Place of the Fountain down into rocky keel jutting out from the hill of Minas Tirith and to the sixth circle of the city. Faramir and Imrahil did not take guards, but Éomer and I were as usually accompanied by half a dozen men from the king's guard.

Inside the tunnel I noticed for the first time that to the upper sides of the wall and to the roof of the tunnel glinting murals of precious stones had been added. It was a good thing that Éomer supported me, or I would surely have stumbled and fallen, walking with my head tilted back and trying to make sense of the mosaics around me. The murals showed how Aragorn had found the sapling of the White Tree that was flourishing near the fountain again.

"Wow! But those are beautiful!" I said to no one in particular. "I don't think I noticed them when we arrived."

Éomer's hold on me tightened. "You were asleep on your feet, or rather, on your horse, dear."

_Ada_ turned around and smiled at us. The light of the torches made his silver-blond hair flare like _mithril_. "It's the work of the dwarves of Aglarond and the elves of Ithilien. Minas Tirith has become more beautiful than it was in many centuries since the War of the Rings. Sometimes I feel that only if all the free peoples of Arda work and live together, she will truly flower."

As he said that I felt an icy shiver run down my spine. It seemed to me as if the world held its breath for a moment and then released it in a soft sigh. Almost, as if in that innocuous sentence Imrahil had touched upon one of the deepest secrets of creation…

I shuddered. Probably just the draught of cooler air here in the tunnel and the mystical atmosphere created by the beautiful murals in the flickering light of the torches.

Then we were out of the tunnel and back in the sunshine. To our right the stables of the Guards of the Citadel stretched out against the cliff in high white walls and the unmistakable whiff of horse and hay. A little way off, to the outer edge of the circle, were the Houses of Healing. They were hidden behind another length of white walls with their quiet hallways and well-lit chambers and with their gardens of tall trees whispering in the breeze. Now, at the height of summer the green of their leaves was dimmed to shades of reseda and sage, blending in with the walls covered in the slight coat of dust that was the residue of long weeks of warm and dry weather. I remembered the days I had first walked the shadowy paths of those gardens in Éowyn's and Faramir's company and once again I was filled with wonder at the thought how far we had come since those days between darkness and light.

The Tree and the Tavern was also built against the outer edge of the sixth circle, just on the left side of the gate to the fifth circle. The large common room was at ground level, its only windows to the front with pots planted with red geraniums from the Lebennin, its walls – a quite daring fashion statement – washed in a gentle reddish hue with white borders around windows and doors. Different from the pubs and taverns of the lower circles there was no counter for the consummation of beverage in front of the pub. Above the common room were one large and two smaller rooms for dining, with large, clear windows looking out to the lower circles of the city, a breathtaking view! The third floor provided a bunch of private rooms for the lords to smoke their Haradric cigars in and do some private politicking.

We had the better one of the small dining rooms for ourselves, the one that is parallel to the walls of the sixth circle. I admit that I was glad to be appointed a seat that granted me full view of the lower circles. And next to Éomer, of course.

"This is indeed more pleasant than I remembered," Míriël observed as she scrutinized the walls panelled in gleaming mahogany, the chairs comfortably upholstered with smooth green brocades, the long table decked out in heavy white linen.

"Would I ever subject you to a place not to your liking, _melethril nîn_?" Imrahil asked Míri, comfortably settling down at the head of the table.

Míri sat down on his left and replied, raising one delicately slanted dark eyebrow. "You? You would never dream of persuading me to come to the Laughing Oliphaunt with you, wouldn't you?"

Imrahil reached for her hand and dropped a symbolic kiss on it. "Didn't I just say that?"

Elphir, sombre in the uniform of the captain of the Guards of the Citadel, helped his betrothed into her chair, and then sat down across from me. He shook his head a little at the good natured bantering of his parents, then smiled fondly at his betrothed. Lady Golothwen of Anfalas was very young, just eighteen years, and very pretty, in a shy, but self-assured way. She had the dark hair of most Gondorians, but her greenish-grey eyes hinted at ancestors of a different heritage. There was also the delicateness to her feature that I recognized as a strain of the people of the Bay of Belfalas of whom it was said that there was elvish blood in their background. She was one of the ladies-in-waiting of Arwen and although I had only met her a couple of times I genuinely liked her. In the few conversations we had had she had been friendly and observant, with a warm, wry humour. It was good to see that Elphir was so happy around her and positively doting on her.

Númendil, who was seated to my left, stared out of the window in fascination. When he noticed how I followed his gaze, he turned and smiled. "It is so different from the way I remember it," he commented, his voice breaking between the remnants of his high boyish voice and the deep commanding baritone that he would have as a grown man. "All that green in the lower circles."

I nodded. Although I did remember that I had found Minas Tirith already very much changed during my last visit on my way from Dol Amroth to my wedding at Edoras, I also remembered how differently changes are perceived as a child or teenager. And in way, the view astounded me as much as it did him. My first and most poignant memories of Minas Tirith were of a city that was all stone and smoking ruin at least in the lower circles.

"It is very beautiful now, with all that green down below and the Fields of the Pelennor fertile and flourishing again," I agreed.

Faramir, who had listened to our exchange turned around to look at the view of the city of his birth that had inspired our conversation. I could see how his eyes lit up with joy at the sight of city and fields blooming like that. "There were so many dead after the War of the Rings that the buildings in the Lower Circles that had been destroyed were simply never rebuilt," he explained. "When the elves from Eryn Lasgalen moved to Ithilien, they laboured for a whole year to turn the ruins into gardens and parks. Now the Lower Circles are quite the fashionable quarters of Minas Tirith…"

Our conversation was interrupted by servants carrying large trays with glasses filled with white sparkling wine from the Dor-en-Ernil.

Soon all glasses were lifted to toast the future and the new children of the line of Dol Amroth to be born soon.

"Health and happiness!"

**oooOooo**

The evening went by all too quickly, rich with good food and pleasant conversation, spiced with the happy knowledge of good things to come.

Faramir and Éowyn were the first to leave. Éowyn's remark at our careful and cumbersome parting embrace was a rather coarse Rohirric expression aimed at her unborn child, while Faramir only smiled and held out his arm to her. Elphir was the next to depart, together with Elaine and the boys.

Finally, when the full moon was already high in the sky and the bells had tolled the midnight hour in low, ringing voices of well-forged bronze, Imrahil, Míriël, Éomer and I were on our way back to the palace, the guards pale-faced and tired, after an evening spent on watered-down ale in a swanky common-room with their betters dining and partying the night away.

The Houses of the Healing gleamed soft and silent in the moonlight and from the stables of the Guard I could hear the low noises of horses, hooves in stalls and the snorting into the remnants of an evening's hay. The entrance to the tunnel that lead up to the Citadel – during daytime looming dark and deep – was now bright and inviting with the light of many torches and the brightly glittering colours of the murals. As we passed through the tunnel I realized that it did not smell tunnel-like at all, but warm and dry and clean, perhaps a bit cool, but of resin and herbs. Perhaps they burned incense with the torches now and again?

Leaving the tunnel it seemed to me for a moment that we were walking straight into the stars. With only torches and fires to light the darkness of the light, the stars very bright and near, blazing on a night-sky of velvety darkness caught between black and blue. I did not know many constellations and stars. But there was what I had once known as the Big Dipper and Orion. However, that single, low and very bright star next to the White Tower, just above the jutting shoulder of Mount Mindolluin, that was a star that I knew only from this Middle-earth: Eärendil, the elves' most beloved star. You don't cross yourself in Middle-earth; but when the elves behold that star, bright light in the darkest night, they touch their foreheads and their hearts and ask Varda for Her blessing. And so did I, that starry night in Minas Tirith.

In front of the southern palace, the houses of the most esteemed guests of the Court of Gondor, we bid Imrahil and Míriël good-night and Éomer released the guards from their duties – to a well earned draught of unwatered beer or a quiet bed.

"Now it's only us," Éomer whispered, when the guards and Imrahil and Míri were gone. He drew me closer into his embrace. "Would you care for a walk in the moonlight?"

Any other night I would have welcomed that romantic offer. But not tonight. There was something important that I needed to tell him. And tell him in the peace and quiet of our own bedroom here in Minas Tirith.

"Actually," I said slowly, trying to ignore how the gleam left his eyes to be replaced by worry and apprehension. But I wanted to lie in bed next to him when I told him my news! "Actually, I'd rather we go to bed. If you don't mind?"

He did not mind, but his concern was evident in his every move, the way he tried to support me up the stairs and tried to make me wake Ini and Sorcha to help me undress and get ready for bed. I refused steadfastly and laughed at him, telling him not to be a "dummer Junge", a stupid boy – which seemed to reassure him, enough at least to send him off to his own bathroom to undress and wash a little for the night.

I could undress alone although it was a formal dress. This one sported a row of bows; not buttons, but silky bows kept it closed at the front. I could not dress myself, because I was not able to tie pretty bows, least of all from my throat down to my toes. But I could open them. The dress sighed to the ground in a whisper of easy silks. Although there was not much to show of my pregnancy yet, Elaine had decreed that I should not wear any constraining dresses, so I had been outfitted with a collection of extravagant exotic gowns that owed their style in part to elvish, in part to southern fashion.

I stood in front of the dresser with the mirror and the washing bowl and stared at my reflection. I _loved_ the soft swell of my midsection, the way the navel was changing its shape, the way I could almost move my hand now below the gentle bulge. I found my breasts beautiful and enticing, growing rounder and heavier every day, and oh so sensitive! It seemed to me that the nipples were forever erect and reaching for a touch…

…and at the moment the desired touch was not yet that of a baby's hungry mouth. It was another desire, another kind of hunger. As if in answer to my thoughts, there was the familiar prickling and tightening low inside me, luring me into bed and to offer myself to Éomer's touches. But this answer to my thoughts in turn provoked another reaction in my body, a reaction that had nothing to do with me, and all to do with the tiny occupant of my womb.

Butterfly wings tickling me from the inside out!

I giggled and caressed my belly in answer to the precious fluttering.

Then I ran from the bathroom and quickly climbed into the four-poster bed where Éomer was already waiting for me. I snuggled up to him, inhaling gratefully the musky scent of his body, and again experiencing that extraordinary reaction of desire and love come alive inside me.

"_Léofest,_ there's something I would like to tell," I whispered and moved closer to Éomer. I could hear my smile in my voice. I guess so could Éomer, because I felt him relax. His right arm hugged me still closer to him, while his left hand travelled unerringly to where my right hand rested: that soft sweet bulge that said we would be a family come next spring.

"And what might that be, my love?"

I covered Éomer's hand with mine and enjoyed the feeling of his gentle-callused touch on my naked skin. "I felt the baby move for the first time this afternoon! He's really there! He's alive and he's growing!"

"Really? You felt the babe move?" Éomer sat up in the bed, his dark eyes glowing brighter than the warm darkness of the summer night that filled our room. He spread the covers aside and lifted my nightshirt, placing both his hands on my belly in the lightest caress. "How does it feel?"

"I don't think you will be able to feel anything from the outside yet," I cautioned. "He has to grow some more for that. But inside, it felt just like Sorcha said: like the wings of a butterfly or a moth beating against the flesh of my stomach from the inside out, like little bubbles bursting against the skin… as if I had too much coca-cola or of that sparkly white wine from the Dor-en-Ernil…" I smiled at Éomer, caught up in the memory of that feeling; for at the moment my womb lay quiescent.

"I envy you," Éomer whispered. "To be so close to our child, to hold this treasure as it grows and unfolds, like a rosebud growing from a tiny grain of green to a full flowering bloom…"

He began caressing my body with both hands, gently stroking my sides, my belly, up to my breasts. "You guard my greatest treasure, my lady," he whispered. "You who are the greatest blessing ever bestowed upon me…" He bent down to kiss my breasts. I gasped for breath, surprised at the direction his response was taking. "You are boundless, my _léofe_, in your beauty, in your love! I could drown myself in your desire; I would anchor myself forever in the haven that you are to me…"

While he whispered those sweet words to me, he trailed kisses down my body, taking care to cover every inch of my skin with loving attention. Soon his poetic words were rushing away over my head like rain in heavy winds, as my awareness faded to those touches of silky fire, his lips on my skin…

He laughed softly, when he noticed that I was almost beyond paying any attention to his words. "Don't mind me, my lady and my love! For I am a fool in love tonight! And now I'd better do what all fools ought to: shut up and concentrate on the task at hand!"

That's exactly what he did.  
And _damn_ was he good at it.

**oooOooo**

**A/N: **I hope you liked this chapter.

Thank you for your many comments and congratulations on chapter 100!

Your good wishes and encouragement really means a lot to me.

Yours

JunoMagic


	102. Elboron

**Acknowledgements:** many thanks to Ellenflower, Frigg, Aranel, Narwen and Narwen's mother for stories, answering questions and good advice.

**oooOooo**

**102. Elboron**

I stared at Elaine.

"I am supposed to be with Éowyn as she gives birth?"

That was what Elaine had just told me. Wisely not in Éowyn's presence. Apparently she had anticipated that I might react not quite appropriately. Therefore I now found myself in this small salon, seated on a high backed chair, and very grateful to be sitting, too.

"The customs about what is appropriate and what is not appropriate for the time of birth vary considerably between Gondor and Rohan," Elaine explained patiently. "In Gondor the father is not present at birth, but there have to be a notary and seven witnesses in the room to document that the birth took place, that the child was born alive and if it is a boy or a girl. If those procedures are observed, the father has to accept the child as his – if he cannot prove that someone else has lain with his wife within nine months. In Rohan, the father is supposed to support the mother during her labour. And the father is the one to accept or reject the child after birth. Rohirric customs have always been a little more direct in their approach, shall we say? However, one custom is true for all the lands north of the Poros: the female relatives of the woman will be with her during her time, to support her and encourage her. And, of course, to help with the necessities of birth."

I gaped at Elaine. And I felt my heartbeat quicken with a mixture of excitement and dread. There was no going back for me… my time would come as surely as Éowyn's. She was due any day now. But I was not at all sure if I wanted to witness the grisly details of birth up-close and personal before it was my time. Now it looked as if I would not be given a choice in that matter.

"Now, in Éowyn's case it will of course not be expected of you or the Queen to actually help with the preparations and such; for that work there are healers, the ladies-in-waiting and the maid-servants of the Lady of Ithilien. But you _are_ expected to be present and to assist her during labour. I know that the Lady of Ithilien is your friend. It is only natural for you to be nervous, with your time not too far off now, too. Never fear, my lady! I will be there and advise you exactly on what you are to do to help the White Lady." Elaine paused and gave me a scrutinizing look. "Do you think you will be able to do that?"

I realized that Elaine did not think I would be. I felt heat rise to my cheeks. I was still more than a little embarrassed about my collapse and… well, there was no pretty word for it, my _hysterics_ upon my arrival in Minas Tirith. I managed not to glare at the healer or grind my teeth. But only just. "I think so," I replied finally, my voice colder than I wanted it to be.

"Good," the healer nodded, apparently satisfied with my reaction. "It will be any day now. The babe has already changed its position and is pressing downwards. This is why Éowyn has been so very uncomfortable during the last days. I think it might even start today. Well, we'll see. If you have no questions or other duties for me at the moment, my lady? I should see about the preparations for the birth."

I swallowed and nodded. "No, of course not. Thank you, Elaine."

She curtsied prettily, her face tense, her gaze on my midsection. I knew what she was thinking. I remembered well that night's talk on our way from Edoras to Minas Tirith. When I had given birth, she would… do whatever she needed to do. And I would cover for her.

It was a deal. I hoped the deal would go well for her. I was not worried about my part in the deal. Maybe Éomer would not much like it and there'd be some kind of scandal, but I did not think that there would be any dire consequences that I would have to be wary of.

**oooOooo**

Éowyn did not scream. She also did not curse Faramir ceaselessly for getting her into her present condition. I guess I thought she would do both. I mean, that's what you read in all those romance novels, right?

Well, she did neither. She kept silent, her teeth clenched tightly for the most part. But what she did do was almost break my arm, as Arwen and I helped walking her in circles around her room. That was the bit of the process the romance novels had right. Elaine told me that it was good to keep on your feet and walking for as along as possible, if things were as they ought to be. That made the labour quicker. It did. The bruises on my arms would prove that to the most casual observer.

I glanced at the window. I had not heard the bell ring the hour, so I had to judge the time from the sunlight that was still flooding the room. It was 21st day Yavannië; the daylight hours were already diminishing. Summer was over and the fiery colours of autumn were turning the fields and forests of Gondor into floods of gold and red. Maybe five o'clock, I thought. Éowyn's pains had started just after lunch. In an hour the sun would set.

I suppressed a moan of pain of my own, as Éowyn clenched her fist around my arm in another convulsion of pain. I saw how the skin on Arwen's high cheekbones tightened and paled almost imperceptibly in reaction to Éowyn's grip.

No wonder Éowyn had wasted that witch-king. She was just as strong as any warrior. Her eyes turned glassy with the contraction. Her breath came in gasps. There was no doubt. The pains were coming in a regular rhythm. They were also getting worse. And the bouts of pain followed closer and closer together. I could see the ripples of the contraction pass through Éowyn's flesh even through her loose nightgown. Wet with her sweat the thin fabric was positively plastered across her mighty womb. The child simply had to be a boy. Or an elephant. An oliphaunt?

Arwen was able to keep up some kind of conversation, reassuring Éowyn, talking with me and the other ladies. I nodded for the most part, answered in monosyllables and made what I hoped were comforting noises at the right intervals. For the rest I tried to keep my thoughts in the room and away from my own condition. Éowyn's vice-like grip helped there.

Éowyn did not speak at all. She only hissed now and again, apparently determined not to moan, scream or curse at all.

How long could this take?

We had been at it for hours now!

I knew that Arwen's labour had been very quick; her elven half gave her more control over her body than mere mortal women had, in spite of the added difficulty her first birth being twins. I knew that Sorcha had been in labour for almost two days. I did not want to contemplate that. Either for Éowyn. Or for myself.

Elaine stopped our march. "Let me have a look, to see how far you are along."

Éowyn nodded mutely and allowed herself to be led to the bed. Her legs were shaking so that Arwen and I had to help her get them up and to the sides, so that Elaine could check how things looked down there.

I did not want to look.

That was so horribly intimate.

And there were already so many people in this room! Apart from Elaine, Arwen, Míriël and myself, there were three other ladies and four maid-servants, though two of them were waiting in front of the room for the most part to run errands should any need arise. Then there was the notary, ensconced in a comfortable chair in a corner of the room, with parchment, quills and seal-wax ready on the table.

In the adjoining room Faramir was waiting, along with Aragorn and Éomer. If I were them, I would be getting drunk as a skunk to soothe my frazzled nerves. Last I had seen Faramir, before we retired to Éowyn's bedroom, he had been white as a sheet and trembling worse than Éowyn in an onslaught of labour pains.

Mistress Ioreth was also present, but after her first examination of Éowyn she had proclaimed in her somewhat callous manner that it would be after midnight. Therefore she would go and see some other patients now. I hoped she had given Faramir a calming draught on her way to her patients. I would have liked one for myself.

I did not want to look.  
But I could not _not_ look.

Éowyn's midsection looked swollen to the point of bursting. The veins were standing out against her white skin. Everything down there was red and looked swollen and painful, too. And I could see that her body was trying to provide an opening that was big enough for a baby to get through.

I gulped and felt vaguely sick. When I looked up again, Arwen was giving me a stern look. I swallowed again and gave a tiny nod. I was alright. My job was to help Éowyn, not to get frightened and sick.

Elaine examined Éowyn's progress calmly and quickly. Every move, every touch spoke of the assertiveness of an expert who knows exactly what she is doing. That in turn calmed me down again.

"Well," Elaine said finally and motioned for Arwen and me to help Éowyn sit up again. "I think you may prove Mistress Ioreth wrong again. I think it will not be very long at all now. Do you want to keep walking? Or do you feel like settling down?"

There was a wooden chair-like thing Éowyn could use to squat on for delivery. I had been told that many Rohirric women gave birth squatting, being held by their husbands. In Gondor it was more customary to give birth in bed. Though I was told that you cannot give birth lying; you have to kind of sit upright, being held by your attendants.

Éowyn blinked twice. Her concentration was obviously completely on her body giving birth. I wondered if she had understood at all what Elaine had told her. But then she licked her lips and answered in a hoarse voice, "Walk some more."

So we towed her back on her feet and resumed our circling of the room, going round and round and round in endless wavering circles, as the daylight of a glorious autumn's day slowly waned outside the Citadel.

Two hours later Éowyn suddenly turned to sit on the bed, surprising us with the vehemence of her movement.

She had barely settled down on the bed, propped up against Arwen and me, with her knees drawn up and back, when that happened what is commonly called the "breaking of the waters". Well, not so much water. But there was a gush of… fluids.

Elaine remained unperturbed and had the maid-servants remove the soiled sheet from the bed. I felt positively sick now. I was glad that I could sit down on the bed. My knees felt quite weak. But Éowyn would not let go of my arm, her grip like iron. I clenched my teeth and tried breathing through my mouth unobtrusively. Random thoughts jumbled around in my mind like marbles on a beach. _Epidural anaesthesia… what if anything went wrong? Would I be able to get through this without screaming like hell?_

As if she had telepathic talents, Mistress Ioreth was suddenly back. I had not even noticed when she entered the room. But suddenly she was at my side, she smiled at Éowyn and patted me on the back in a reassuring way. "You just insist on proving me wrong over and over again, don't you, my lady Éowyn?"

Arwen and I were commanded to hold Éowyn's hands and to kneel behind her, to keep her propped up in an angle that would help her push out the baby. Sorcha and Golothwen were told to hold her legs knees up and parted, as her knees were wobbling uncontrollably. Then Ioreth went down on her knees in front of the bed and examined the progress of the birth once again.

The old woman was slow and careful in her examination. When she rose from her kneeling position at the foot of the bed, she smiled at Éowyn. "You are doing well, my lady. Whenever you feel like pushing that little prince into this Middle-earth, just tell us so that we can prepare a suitable reception for the little lord."

Éowyn only moaned a hissing noise that sounded not quite like a 'thank you', then she gritted her teeth, her jaw muscles straining as another wave of pain shuddered through her slender frame – well, apart from the huge, rippling bulge of baby in her middle, Éowyn was terribly slender.

Turning to Elaine, Ioreth nodded approvingly. "Well done, my lady healer."

Catching my probably slightly greenish complexion, Ioreth furrowed her impressive old woman's brows. But she did not comment. Lucky me. _Just don't pass out, Lothy. Not now. Not now._

Ioreth was right.

It did not take long now.

Quite suddenly Éowyn struggled into an almost standing position, heavily supported by Arwen and me and for all I could tell seriously intending to break my arm after all. Éowyn's usually pale face was suddenly flushed with effort and between grunting moans she reverted back to her native Rohirric, "_Nu! Ic - __beþurfe - scufan!_ Now! I – need – to – push!"

Sorcha and Golothwen held Éowyn's legs firmly spread apart. Ioreth was busy controlling the development between her legs. Míriël was standing at the ready with soft towels, Elaine with a maid-servant at her side who was holding a tray with scissors and needles and other frightening surgical implements. The notary had readied his seal-wax, ink and parchment and now stepped forward from his corner to have full view of the proceedings.

"Not yet, my lady," Ioreth called out in a commanding voice.

I don't know how Éowyn managed to contain the obviously overpowering urge to push that had gripped her body at that command. Maybe it was a shield maiden thing. For she did. Her head quite read with the effort, her jaws moving with the need, she kept control of her body, as the contraction seized her.

Gauging the peak of the contraction apparently by a simple, experienced look at the way Éowyn's body convulsed, Ioreth suddenly called out, "Now! Push as hard as you can!"

Éowyn did push.

She grunted.

We grunted.

She heaved.

We followed her movements, supporting her weight as firmly as possible, trying to help as best we could. Ioreth shook her head. "No, that was not yet enough. It would have been a miracle. But you are almost there, my lady. Almost there. Maybe even with the next pain. Now: breathe. Deeply. Stop. Gasp a bit. Yes, well done. We'll have to wait for the next contraction. But I really do hope that the enxt pain will get the little prince out of his warm nest. Don't worry, my lady, you are strong and it is almost over."

Éowyn shut her eyes. She gasped. She breathed.

We did not have to wait long.

Suddenly her eyes flew open again and a deep moan escaped her lips.

This time, the contraction and the way she pushed with it was so enormous that this exertion of strength seemed to travel almost like an outburst of electrical energy right through my arms holding her, through my body, right down to my toes. I could hear that Arwen gasped at the same time as Éowyn's grunted in her effort to push will all her strength.

Éowyn's body convulsed in a weirdly undulating wave, as if a huge fist was gently, but relentlessly squeezing down around her. The contraction passed down her body, and suddenly there was a huge red and slimy thing between her legs. It moved. It did not look like a landed trout or something. If anything it looked like an alien. An ugly alien. But before I had time to take a closer look, Míriël picked up the baby with the white towels she had been holding ready and turned to Elaine with the babe safely in her arms. Elaine quickly cleaned the baby's face and there was a huffy sound, a grunt – a tiny version of Éowyn's – and then a sound that reminded me of the high-pitched squealing of an annoyed piglet.

"A healthy boy, Éowyn!" Míriël called out, her voice bright with happiness and relief. "He is _beautiful_!"

Éowyn's face shone up like the sun after a thunderstorm in the summer sky. I followed her suddenly brilliantly happy gaze to the bundle held out to her by Míri.

"_Wlitig_," she whispered huskyly. "_Wlitig and swiþ!_ Beautiful and strong!"

Not as far as I could see. He was slimy, reddish-purplish and pruny. He was not as huge as I thought at first, though certainly pudgy. And he was still attached to his mother. The umbilical cord was a greasy, whitish-bluish writhing thing that was suspended in the air between Éowyn's legs and the bundle in Míriël's arms. I stared at the pulsing cord and felt now acutely sick. Elaine suddenly had silver scissors in her hands and without further ado cut the cord in two. The lower half of the cord fell down to the bed with a wet smack. I could not see what they did with the other half, as they turned away from the bed to take care of the baby, probably they tied down the cord and cleaned it and all that.

Éowyn's torture however was not yet over.

Ioreth had been busy examining Éowyn while I had stared at the umbilical cord and the baby. "No deep tears, only minimal bleeding. Well done, my lady Éowyn, well done indeed! Now, one last push and we can get you comfortable!"

"Support her well," Ioreth told Arwen and me. "I am going to help her push out the afterbirth. Now, breathe, my lady, gasp, and breathe deeply, the way I taught you. Yes! Now! One more time!"

I could see how exhausted Éowyn was, her face muscles were looking cramped, her eyes were staring wildly and seemed to lie suddenly deep in their holes with her golden hair plastered around her face in sweaty tendrils. This last contraction passed over her body in a heavy shudder and her grasp on my arm was suddenly slipping. I reached for her and held her as firmly as I could, my eyes desperately searching for the healer's. Ioreth was busy pressing down on Éowyn's stomach in a movement that looked almost as if she was kneading dough. She knew what she was doing, too. With a sound like a wet fart, the afterbirth slithered out from between Éowyn's legs in a lump of blood and slime and mucous. Éowyn collapsed weakly against us, her eyes fluttering shut as the remnants of labour washed over her body in ebbing, painful waves.

We settled the Éowyn gently back on the cushions. Then I slipped off the bed and collapsed on the high backed chair placed at its side. The maid-servants hurried forward to take away the soiled sheets. Apparently there had been several layers of additional sheets on the bed, so that they had only to remove as many soaked layers as necessary to get to clean ones to make Éowyn comfortable. To clean up Éowyn, Golothwen approached the bed with another maidservant at her side who was holding up a basin of warm water from which the unmistakable fragrance of _athelas_ wafted.

The scent of _athelas_ settled my queasy stomach and cleared my mind, while I tried to recover from the exertions of helping my friend give birth. _I had indeed helped my friend give birth._

I felt a silly smile spread on my face. I grinned at Arwen. Arwen grinned back at me. Éowyn was lying in the bed with her eyes closed, her breathing only gradually returning back to normal, the bright red flush of exertion slowly receeding from her cheeks.

When the blood and slime and some of the sweat had been wiped away, and Ioreth had massaged some fragrant oil – not _athelas_ this time, no idea what it was – into Éowyn's nether regions and the still dilated skin of her belly. Then she supplied Éowyn with thick paddings for bleeding that would follow the delivery and Arwen and Golothwen helped her into a new nightdress. Éowyn's movements were shaky, her face wreathed with a weary, wavering smile. I came out of my numbness in time to help with her hair. I got to brush the tangled tendrils of my sister-in-law's hair, while the Queen of Gondor was sitting at her side, holding a tiny, very red and crumpled infant, swathed in white cloth. I smoothed back Éowyn's hair and weaved it into a single golden braid and only realized that I was crying when the tears fell down on my hands.

When Éowyn was clean and comfortable, lying back against a heap of pillows once more, basins of water and medical instruments cleared away, the notary came forward. Arwen had handed the child back to Ioreth in her capacity of the head-midwife. Suddenly everyone was very solemn.

The door opened and Faramir – a very pale and shaky looking Faramir – entered the room, along with Aragorn, Imrahil and Éomer. But he was not yet allowed to go to his wife and welcome his son.

First the formalities had to be taken care of.

The notary, a grey-haired, bearded man who squinted his eyes in a short-sighted manner that made him look like a good natured owl, cleared his throat. Then he unrolled a piece of sealed parchment that he had apparently drawn up while we were busy taking care of Éowyn and the new-born Prince of Ithilien.

"Hereby do I, notary of the king's graces, scribe and notary in the king's chancellery, Master of Laws and Lore, Duinor, declare and confirm that on the 21st of Yavannië, in the year 2 of the Fourth Age, a son was born to Faramir son of Denethor, Knight of the Guard of the Citadel, Lord of Henneth Annûn, Prince of Ithilien, Steward of Gondor and Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, sister of Éomer King, White Lady of Ithilien, Lady of the Shield-arm."

He looked up from the parchment and smiled. Arwen started clapping and everyone else did, too. When the room was silent again, the notary turned to Éowyn.

"Do you accept this child?"

Ioreth held out the sleeping baby to Éowyn.

Éowyn reached for the child, but her arms were trembling and so Ioreth quickly stepped forward and place the baby safely in the crook of his mother's arms.

"Yes, I do," Éowyn replied in a firm, but weary voice.

"What shall be his mother-name?" The notary asked, lowering his parchment. I could see that there was a line left free in the middle of the parchment, where he would inscribe the name Éowyn would tell him, and room for seven signatures at the bottom of the document for the witnesses of the birth. Seven witnesses and the notary's seal, then and only then the princedom of Ithilien would have an heir.

"He is Elboron," Éowyn replied, her voice giddily filled with warmth and love, shaking with feeling and fatigue.

"Prince Elboron, son of Faramir, heir of Ithilien," the notary repeated and again applause swept up around the room. "Now I ask the witnesses to please follow me for the necessary signatures."

It took a moment for me to register that this summons included me.

"Sleep well, you two," I whispered as I rose from my chair. Éowyn smiled at me for just a second, a croaky "Thank you" her answer, then she turned back to her child and her husband, who was kneeling next to the bed now, his one hand on the baby's head, the other inextricably linked with the left hand of his wife.

My knees felt wobbly and my mind was numb from the long day and all the excitement, as I followed the notary out of the room. I grinned as Míriël frowned at me and motioned to Éomer to keep close to me, should I decide that this was the opportune moment for a faint, no doubt.

But I did not faint, although my signature on Elboron's birth-record is more than a little wonky. With the effects of the traces of _athelas _I had inhaled quickly wearing off, I was not even very excited anymore, only very, very tired.

I know that there was a toast or something brought out by Aragorn after all the witnesses had signed the birth-record, but I could bear only one swallow of the sparkly white wine served for the occasion, more than that my exhausted stomach was not able to endure. The toast and whatever speeches and well-wishings followed swiftly turned into a blur of faces and voices, until suddenly I found myself in our bed, curled up against Éomer.

I do remember trying to tell him about the birth and how awful it had been, but I think I fell asleep before I ever reached the end of this sentence, "…if this was an easy birth, then I sure as hell don't want to see what a difficult birth is like.".

**oooOooo**

Yavannië September

evil cackle-


	103. A Winter of Waiting

**103. A Winter of Waiting**

It was a harsh winter, this winter of the second year of the Fourth Age. It came early, with storms and heavy snows and a piercing cold that penetrated even the thick walls of the Hall of Meduseld.

I shivered and wished that I could still endure the warm weight of the Hall's cat on my pregnant belly. But midwinter had just passed and it was expected that I would give birth at the end of Narvinyë or during the first two weeks of Nénimë, in four to six weeks.

I felt huge and heavy with the child I carried, a cumbersome weight that pressed down on me all day and all night. Movement was awkward and I found it almost impossible to get warm at all. I found that I could spend all day in a wide chair as close to the fire as possible with my feet buried under one of our huge grey dogs, warm blankets wrapped around me and drinking one soothing cup of herbal tea after the other.

Somehow the gigantic snowdrifts that confined the inhabitants of Edoras to the dim interior of their houses mirrored the condition of my mind and soul. The heavier I became, the closer the time of birth was coming, the more I withdrew from all that went on around me. I was turning inwards, towards my child. I was beginning to live towards my child to the exclusion of everything and everyone else. With my movements restricted by my condition and the weather, my demeanour had become more than reserved; all my thoughts and all my attention were on the lazy movements inside my body. Like the snow covered world outside, I was waiting for spring; I was waiting for new life to burst forth from my body in a bloom never experienced before.

This level of quiet and introspection was more than unusual for me. But I found myself helpless to fight this overpowering feeling of paralysis. I did not even _want_ to fight it, which was even more untypical for me. I embraced this feeling. I spent my days and evenings sitting next to the fire, listening to the goings-on in the hall, the talk and the stories, the songs and the music, dozing every now and again, my hands and my mind on the ever swelling growth of my body and my unborn child. At night I curled up on my side, Éomer spooning me from behind, trying to keep me warm. More often as not, the cat crept into the bed in front of me, its furry body lined against my belly, a little extra warmth that was much appreciated.

During the hot weeks of summer, the care-free days in Minas Tirith and later in Ithilien, desire had ruled my nights. And all too often – at the most inopportune moments – also my days. Now, in the dead of winter I would have been glad for such fire, but more often than not, I could not bear another's touch, much less bodily intimacy. It was not that I could not or would not feel bodily desire or that I felt repulsed by it. It was more as if this was an intrusion on my present state of mind and body. It _annoyed_ me. Mainly because it would draw my attention away from my womb and who was growing within me. Moving within me. Only sometimes I found it soothing and warming to have the gentlest of sexual encounters. At those times I would lie spooned against Éomer's strength and allow myself to be swayed by the rocking motion of his desires… but more often than not I fell asleep before he was finished.

**oooOooo**

Elaine sat down next to me. I could tell that she was worried. "Are you still feeling so cold?"

I nodded. "Well, it's mostly my feet." At the moment my feet were buried under the massive warm weight of Freki, one of Éomer's huge grey dogs, so I felt quite cheerful.

Elaine reached out and touched my face and my hands. Then she got up and leaned over me. "May I, my lady?"

"Of course," I opened my shawl so that she could feel the warmth of the skin over my breasts. My breasts were huge, ripe and almost painful. When I saw Anrid nursing her little son, I experienced strange prickling sensations in my breasts, a pressure building up inside my flesh that could not yet be relieved, but was almost unbearable.

Elaine's cool hand on my breasts made me shiver. "I'm sorry, my lady," she smiled at me and quickly withdrew her hand, helping me to adjust the shawl.

The baby used that moment to butt its head against my ribs.

"Awww…" I gasped. I laid my hands on my belly, rubbing it in slow, soothing circles. "Kiddo, those were my ribs you just hit with your head!"

Elaine frowned at me. "You feel his head? Against your ribs?"

"Well, he's so big now that I sort of know what hits me when he moves a bit fiercely. I think he's curled up sort of diagonally. He likes kicking my bladder and head butting my ribs. His favourite punching bag is my liver." I sighed with relief as the inhabitant of my womb quieted down again. I looked up and caught a very worried look in Elaine's eyes. "Is something wrong?"

For a moment the healer remained silent. Then she smiled again, but there was an undeniable tension to her smile. "Don't worry, Lothíriel. Everything is going to be fine. Your babe seems to be a bit lazy about the turning around. But I am sure it will turn around soon. So just keep calm and as comfortable as possible. I think your body is warmer than it was during the last weeks. That is a good sign. You are warming up; your body is gathering the strength it will need to give birth."

I felt faintly worried that my baby was late in turning around, but only a little bit. Somehow I could not really be scared beyond an occasional wave of uneasiness and a shiver of breath less expectation. What mattered most to me was the prospect that my body was getting warmer, that my body was getting ready to give birth. _I wanted to hold that baby so much!_

I wanted to see that little bonehead that hurt my ribs every now and again. I wanted to hold those flailing tiny fists that already packed quite a punch… I wanted to tickle those little feet that kept pushing against my bladder… I wanted to count his toes and see his eyes. I was very sure by now that he would be the son I had read about ages ago in the appendix of "The Lord of the Rings" – though I could not remember the name, much to my chagrin.

"I bet he's going to have dark eyes like his father," I told Elaine. Then I realized that this was probably not the appropriate answer to talking about the temperature of my body. "_Ummm…_ I think that I am feeling a bit warmer, body wise. But my feet seem to be cold most of the time, still. I'm really grateful to those furry feet-warmers down there."

Freki grunted and stretched his back against my legs.

"They are good dogs," Elaine replied and reached down to pet the thick grey fur of Éomer's dog. Freki did not even deign her worthy to open an eye. But he gave a wet sort of snuffle and one of his paws twitched in a doggish dream. "However, you should move about a bit, my lady. Movement might inspire your babe to turn around. I believe the snow storm has finally abated. Maybe Éomer King could accompany you on a walk on the terraces?"

I shuddered at the thought. _How would I ever get warm afterwards?_ But I did know that the baby had to turn and the sooner he turned around, the sooner I would give birth. "I'll ask Éomer if he has time to go for a walk this afternoon," I agreed.

"Afterwards a warm bath, and a gentle massage with some special oils I have prepared," Elaine advised. "Let me know when you go outside so that I can get everything ready."

"I will. Thank you." I felt like sighing. Would that last month of pregnancy never pass?

**oooOooo**

Elaine had been right, as usual. The weather was better today. When the gates of the Golden Hall were opened for us, I was almost blinded by the brilliant golden sunshine outside. The sky was wide with the lightest clearest blue a winter sky can manage, with no cloud in sight at all. I gasped, exhaling a hot cloud of breath in the wintry air.

"How beautiful!"

Éomer smiled happily and offered me his arm. I think he was relieved that he was able to help me for a change. The waiting was getting on his nerves even more than on mine. A warrior at heart the inability to do anything but wait and be patient with my moods was really getting to him sometimes. He never said anything. But I could see it in his eyes, along with anxiety.

"May I lead you outside, my dear? I have ordered the terraces to be swept and sanded thoroughly, so that you do not have to be worried about where you step."

I adjusted my scarf and laid my hand on Éomer's arm. "Let's go and try to persuade that child of yours to turn around and get born soon!"

In the sunshine and bundled up in multiple layers of fabrics, leather and fur I felt comfortably warm at once. Only the air was cold in my lungs and freezing the tip of my nose. We walked to the edge of the terrace at first, getting a full view of Edoras covered in snow.

So much snow!

I could not remember ever having seen so much snow in my life. Here and there the mounds of snow were as high as the roofs of the houses, and chimneys and gutters were graced with huge icicles that sparkled like diamonds in the sun.

"I have never seen so much snow," Éomer remarked. "This has to be almost like the fell winter…"

I shivered involuntarily. I had heard tales about that winter, a winter that had been longer and colder than any other winter in the memory of men. A winter that had seen the wolves and the wild wargs grow so hungry that they had invaded small villages and killed many… food had grown so scarce during that winter that many children had died from malnourishment, and when sickness had followed the ice and the snow in springtime, many, many more had died – and not only the old and the young and the weak. I hoped this winter would not turn that bad.

Several companies of Éored were riding from village to village to ascertain if there was severe shortage of food or serious illness anywhere, helping to hunt packs of wolves coming too close to village precincts. So far, Rohan was holding up against winter and weather.

"Where to now," my husband asked, his eyes glittering in an almost amber colour in the brightness of this winter day. "Left or right?"

I turned around to face the hall and considered this. To the right we would come to the flower gardens first. To the left we would pass the kitchens and guard barracks and the kitchen gardens. But the sun, still in the eastern sky, would be warmest there – and the view of the Ered Nimrais promised to be breathtaking. "Let's go left first."

"Very well, _léofest_," Éomer gripped my arm tightly and carefully led me to the eastern corner of the Hall of Meduseld.

**oooOooo**

I think it was the icicles that made me look at the low tapering roof of the hall. The golden slates were hidden under tons of snow and from the gutters icicles reached down to a foot above the ground at times, their length varying from the size of my small finger to the height of a tall man. Between the icicles the ends of the massive beams supporting the roof of the hall gleamed in the sunlight. For the first time I realized that some of the ornamental carvings that graced them were not simply abstract, faintly Celtic designs covered in gold and bright colours, but figures. Every second beam was graced with a figure. I stopped and stared. They reminded me of figures of Greek or roman gods I had seen in museums or of saints and angels carved into corbels of gothic cathedrals.

"What do they show?" I asked Éomer. "I think I never noticed them before."

I took a closer look and frowned. They were a bit faded with age and weather, but they were truly beautiful. They also did not really look Rohirric, I thought. If anything, they looked elvish. I turned to Éomer. "They seem to be very old, and they look very unusual…" I trailed off, wondering if it was appropriate to mention that carvings in the roof of the most exalted hall of the Rohirrim did not look Rohirric at all.

Éomer chuckled. "Observant as always! You are right: the carvings are not Rohirric."

"Why?" I reached out and trailed my fingers over a flowing female figure that seemed to hold a star in her hand. "If am not mistaken, those are Elvish carvings."

"And you are right again," Éomer hugged me against him, as much as that was possible with me being so bulky with the baby. "You know the artists, by the way."

"I do?" Startled I turned around completely, looking at Éomer in surprise. My husband grinned at me, obviously enjoying himself. Like most Rohirrim he liked telling stories. Looking at his sparkling eyes I knew that I would get to hear an enjoyable story while waddling around the hall. I felt an answering smile spread on my face.

"Yes, my dear," Éomer offered me his arm again, and as we continued our walk, he began his tale about the building of the Golden Hall of Meduseld and how it came about that there were elvish carvings at the ends of the roof beams.

**oooOooo**

"It was in the year 2510 of the Third Age. From the North-east, a host of wild men attacked, crossing the Anduin with rafts. At the same time, hordes of Orcs came out of the mountains. Cirion, the Steward of Gondor called for aid. But the Valley of the Anduin was sparsely settled at that time and there were few who followed that call. But when Eorl the Young heard of Gondor's plight, he mustered a great host of riders and hastened to the Celebrant, where the army of Gondor was in dire peril. Eorl the Young rode attacked the enemy from the rear and after a hard battle he was victorious on the Field of Celebrant. But Elladan and Elrohir, the sons of Elrond _Peredhel_, led a force of riders across the river Limlight, attacking the foes from a second angle, an angle they did not expect danger to come from at all, once they had turned to face the new enemy coming at them from behind…"

Éomer grinned at my open-mouthed stare. It was apparent that he knew every angle and volley of that battle, no matter that it was fought more than six hundred years ago. "Well, I think Eorl would have won the day and the kingdom without the help of the Elvish twins. But the losses would have been immensely higher."

I closed my mouth, blinking slowly, thinking slightly faster. I _knew_ that elves were immortal, of course. But if you learn how to fight from someone… if someone loses his patience when he is trying to teach you pesky little runes… if someone simply becomes your _friend_ after a time – it is somehow difficult to hold onto the thought that this someone is immortal, Firstborn and will remain exactly the way he looks now when you yourself have long since turned to dust. The battle at the Celebrant had taken place in the year 2510 of the Third Age. More than six hundred years ago. I tried to remember when the twins had been born, but I could not come up with the date. Sometime at the beginning of the Third Age. They were about three thousand years old. I felt an icy shiver pass down my spine and I shuddered.

Éomer drew me close to him again. Warmth flooded my body again at once. "What is it, my love? Are you cold? Should we go back inside?"

I shook my head and smiled, feeling all warm again, warm and fuzzy with sunshine and love. "No, I'm fine. Just a goose walking on my grave. So they fought with your ancestors in the war that earned Calenardhon the status of an independent kingdom?"

Éomer nodded. "Yes, they had a part in the creation of Rohan. They also helped Eorl to find an auspicious place to build the most hallowed hall of the new kingdom. If you take a close look at the maps of Gondor and Rohan, you will notice that the Golden Hall is built exactly on a line from the holy grove above Minas Tirith through the hallowed hill of Halifirien to the edge of the Ered Nimrais. It is a symbol for our respect of Eru Ilúvatar. But although the Eorlingas honour Béma, the great hunter Oromë, most of all the Valar, it was only proper to pay respect to all the Valar in the building of the hall. And who could be better to fashion carvings of the Valar than Elves, most Beloved of the Valar? The carvings were a gift from Elladan and Elrohir for the establishment of the kingdom of Rohan. They show all of the Valar. Though not many remember that anymore… the scene of Béma leading the Rohirrim that was fashioned by our own artists to grace the gable of the front of the hall is more eye-catching than these carefully carved gifts made by our friends…" A hint of melancholy tightened the skin around his eyes. I knew what it was. Time had gone by, and most people had forgotten about the fact that it had been Elladan and Elrohir who had ridden to war with Eorl the Young. I remembered reading a legend about that war in one of the huge tomes I has studied about the history of Rohan last summer. Two great horsemen had been mentioned in that story, yes; and in another version of it, too. But in the one version they had been Béma's sons, sent by the patron of the Rohirrim to help them win their kingdom, and in the other version they had been the illegitimate nephews of Eorl the Young. The historical truth was not recorded in Edoras. And a great deed of friendship had not withstood the passage of time in the hearts and minds of men.

"But the carvings are still here, and beautiful," I whispered. "And the friendship is still true. It was renewed in the War of the Rings."

"You really do know me, don't you, _min wif_?" Éomer smiled at me again – that deep, sweet smile that made my stomach tingle… and my baby kick me for all he was worth.

I suppressed a gasp and smiled back. _Yes, I did know him well by now. And loved him even better._

We moved slowly around the Hall, stopping from time to time to take a closer look at the carvings or at the icicles and I giggled like a child at the steaming dung heap next to the stables of the Hall's chickens and other livestock. The steam looked almost like thick smoke in the cold winter air.

Then we moved around the southern end of the hall to the most beautiful side of Meduseld: the rose gardens. Now there was nothing to see there except undulating hills of snow that covered the hedges and bushes, windblown dunes of snow glittering in the sunlight like powdered diamonds.

"Beautiful," I breathed and walked a little faster, then bending down a bit to touch a heap of snow that towered almost as high as the roof. The snow was soft and cold to the touch. "If I could move faster, I would challenge you to a duel with snowballs!" I threw my handful of snow along the length of the hall. It dropped down miserably after a short flight of perhaps seven feet. Maybe ten.

Éomer raised his eyebrow at me. "Really?"

He let go of my arm, bent down, scooped up some snow and threw.

I glared at him. "Your son is in the way of my arm and my aim!"

Éomer, proudly gazing after his snowball, which had flown almost a hundred feet before it had plummeted into another mound of snow, leaving a deep hole, did not look at me as he replied equably, "Of course, my queen."

I had to laugh at that – as had been Éomer's intention, of course. My laughter in turn alerted the baby which started moving fiercely. And turning, I hoped. _Please, turn around, little one,_ I said in my thoughts. _It's time. Please turn around._

Out loud I said, "Be that as it may, my lord."

I managed to raise an eyebrow of my own, which was sufficient to make the corners of Éomer's eyes crinkle with laughter. "How about telling me a story, as we go on?"

"Whatever my lady wishes." He offered me his arm again. "What would you like to hear?"

I looked at the elvish carvings again. "The Valar," I said finally. "What do you know about them? What do you think of them? It's still strange for me to… to think of them at all. You know how I told that where I come from, we are never certain of the existence of either beings like the Valar or a Creator like Eru. We have to believe… but you… you _know_…"

Éomer halted in his progress and turned to look at the carvings again, too. His expression was thoughtful. "You are wrong, Lothíriel," he said at last. "We have to believe, too. It's the Elves who _know_. _We_ can only hope that although the Valar have laid down their guardianship of Arda, they have not completely forgotten us. We have to _believe _that the Gift of Men is not a Doom, but Eru's plan."

"But at least you know that the Valar exist," I objected. Not for the first time I wondered if it had been really the voice of a Vala that I had thought to hear in my mind that one time during the War of the Rings.

"I do," Éomer agreed slowly. "But most men don't. They have never seen a Vala. Most of them have not even talked to an Elf who has seen Aman the Blessed. There are many families whose parents and grandparents, even whose great-grandparents have never seen Valar or the Firstborn Children of Ilúvatar who can tell about the Valar, because they have encountered them in their _hröa_.

"In fact I would say that most of the Rohirrim and Gondorians of this day and age have to _believe _in the Valar and the One in much the same way you described it to me. And we don't have learned men to teach their wisdom and build… what did you call them? _Churches _and _cathedrals _to honour them and to remind people of their faith. All we have are a few holy hills, but if you climb up on the hilltop, you may not utter the One's name, for our forebears' vanity robbed us of the right to invoke the name of the One even in prayer. Only our kings dare speak His name in the holy places, only the bravest of the brave may pray aloud for our people. We may still believe in the One and place our hope in Him. But it is the name of Béma that flees from our lips when we cry for help or when we curse or when we ride into battle, although some say that the Valar have not returned to Middle-earth since the world was changed."

And yet the Valar are more real here than any angel back on earth ever was, I thought. _Strange. _

"I am sure that I have seen him once," Éomer said abruptly. "But some say that the Valar have turned from us, that they have forgotten us…"

He trailed off, hugging me to him again. It was obvious that he did not believe what _some_ did. I snuggled up to my husband best I could, bulky and awkward as I was. "Go on, _léofest_, tell me!"

"I was but a lad… riding out on the plains," he began, speaking more to himself than to me at first. "My first border patrol, I was all alone. A true rider of the Mark! And oh, so proud. But there was a storm coming on, a huge cloud of thunder and rain. And as such clouds are wont to do sometimes, it took form. It loomed above me in the shape of a great hunter, a hunter on a magnificent white steed, with its hooves thundering, its main flowing in dark stormclouds and its eyes blazing with the violet lights of auroras… and it seemed to me that this giant of a hunter turned to me. It seemed to me that he lowered his spear, a spear as high as the sky, a spear with lightning flashing from its point… And I felt as if that hunter… as if he… as if he bowed to me. And the wind… it was not a wind any more, really. It was a raging storm. But I thought I could hear words in that noise of wind and weather…"

"What were the words?" I asked, feeling my heart pounding, mesmerized by Éomer's liquid story-teller voice, yet at the same time truly scared by that tale.

Éomer's eyes were in the distance, when he replied, dark and stormy, and there was a touch of roughness, of wilderness in his voice. "The words were: '_Éomer Eadig, I call thee, mythmaker I dub thee, in thee the oath of Eorl shall return.' _Then lightning flashed and the storm was upon me, and it was a close thing that I and my horse escaped that wild weather unscathed. And when I finally returned to my home, I was not sure if I had seen anything at all… or if I had only imagined things, in my fear of the tempest… Indeed, I am not sure even today. But sometimes, when I dream, I feel as if I can hear that voice again. And it is not a voice of this world."

He shuddered against me. Again I felt an icy shiver run down her spine, an intangible feeling of fearsome awe that stole my breath away and made my heart race. I swallowed hard. My voice sounded thin to my own ears as I asked, "Did you ever tell anyone about this?"

He shook his head. After a moment's silence, he answered. "No. There was no one. Only my sister. And she was… so emotional, so different… some called her deviant, even, when we were young. I could not burden her with this…"

He seldom talked about his youth, with his parents dead too early, leaving his sister in his care… how he had had to leave his home to come and live at the palace, getting accustomed to the refined ways of the capital, where at home both he and his sister had run wild and free…

"But now you have told me," I whispered and buried my face against his chest, trying to calm down my frantically beating heart and the equally frantic kicks of our unborn child.

Éomer laid a gentle kiss on my forehead, blowing away a few strands of my dark hair in a gentle sigh of relief.

"Yes," he said. "Now I have told you. Come, my lady, let us return to the hall and find out if that walk has had the desired effect on our child."

**oooOooo**

**A/N: **I know. I am evil. A completely random and in between chapter. But I do hope you like it nevertheless. The tale of Éomer's meeting with Béma or Oromë was written in an Instant Drabbling Session on YIM as a holiday activity at the Henneth Annûn Story Archive. If you want to know what that is, take a look at my Live Journal my username is juno(underscore)magic and follow the links on my user info page.

Yours  
Juno


	104. The Beginning

**104. The Beginning**

I was getting inexplicably restless.

I had just checked the chest with the baby things and the wooden cradle for the third time this day. I knew that everything was there that the baby would need. More, in fact, than any baby could need. I also knew that anything that was _not_ in there could be purchased within minutes, probably. We were in the capital, after all. Almost any amenity that could be bought in Middle-earth, could be bought in Edoras. It was also immensely awkward to check the chest as big as I had become during the last weeks.

But I could not _not _check.

I carefully lowered myself onto the high-backed chair close to the fire-place in the Golden Hall that had become my favourite spot in the last month. Everything was awkward this week. And painful. There were no contractions yet, but my back never seemed to cease aching and my hips hurt, too. Sometimes I thought even my hair was hurting. If that was at all possible.

The baby had grown calmer, mainly, I thought, because there was almost certainly no room left inside my womb for him to move about. It was difficult for me to tell from his movements now where his head was and where his feet. I hoped he had turned. I was aware that if he had not turned, giving birth could mean his death as well as my death. But there had been nothing about Lothíriel dying in childbed in the books. Only about a son. A son whose name I had forgotten.

I was still annoyed about that.

But even that very vague memory of a son of Lothíriel and Éomer, a son that had been mentioned in a set of paperbacks tattered and torn from being read again and again in another world, in another life, was reassuring to me in my present condition. Apart from that, there was not much I could do. I was due to give birth soon. Period. Either I would be able to or not. There was no such thing as a caesarean-section in Middle-earth, although Elaine had heard about living babies being cut from a mother's dead body.

I realized that I had started rubbing my huge belly in slow circles once again. A slight movement told me that the occupant of my body appreciated the touch. I felt so damn, painfully heavy. I closed my eyes. _Please_, I thought. _Let it be soon._

It was not only my womb that was huge and heavy. My breasts were swollen balls resting on my belly, feeling ready to burst. An almost constant tension headache made me irritable. Between my aching back and my huge belly there was no comfortable position left to spend the night – or the day for that matter.

Sometimes I felt close to beating my belly with my fists in frustration, wanting to scream at that lazy little bugger inside me… But of course I did not. I only slumped down as best I could and resumed rubbing my midsection in those slow and soothing circles, the only movement that was not awkward for me these days. Or I went to take yet another walk that might inspire the baby to get going.

Elaine never let me out of sight anymore. From the way she kept close to me and her guarded look, her careful reassurances I rather thought that she knew the baby had not turned and that she was very worried. _But damn it._ Our son was in the books! There was _nothing_ in the books about Lothíriel dying in childbed. There had only been something about the long and fruitful reign of Éomer. So I could not die in childbed, could I? And our child _had_ to live. And it would be a son.

Again I felt overcome with the urge to go and check if everything was ready for the baby. I resisted the urge, however. Maybe another walk?

In the end I remained where I was.

Legolas and Gimli had arrived in Edoras last week to be here for the birth. Míriel would arrive during the next days. Éowyn was not able to come, as her baby was recovering from a bad cold and travelling was out of the question for her. I would have liked to have Aragorn here, too. And the hobbits. I could not have my real mother. So I wanted at least all of my Middle-earth friends and family.

But I could not even have them. Not all of them.

Some of them were gone over the sea forever. Others had duties that kept them or their own families who needed them. I knew I was honoured with Gimli and Legolas being here, and Míriel and _Ada_ making the long and dangerous way from Dol Amroth to Edoras this time of the year so that they could be here. And yet I was frustrated and teary-eyed when I thought about absent friends or those who could not be here because they lived in another world, another dimension and, for all I knew, another time.

"Baby," I muttered. "If you don't decide that you are ready to be born soon, you are not going to have much fun with your mother, because she will have gone nuts by the time you make your appearance."

At the sound of someone's throat being cleared I looked up. To my astonishment I saw little Danso carefully inching towards me. He had grown a bit and become quite sturdy, but he was still half a head smaller than Taliesin, the harper's ward.

Now he was bowing vigorously, and obviously wanted to tell me something.

I smiled at him encouragingly, although I really only wanted to be left to my thoughts. I knew from Helmichis that he was a good boy, doing everything perfectly he was asked to do and steady in his schoolwork. The least I could do was be a bit friendly to reward that.

"Hello, Danso," I said. "Is there anything you want?"

He bowed even more deeply and his small brown face blushed fiercely. "About the babe, mistress-lady, I were thinkin'. I were…"

"Yes?" My smile broadened. That was too cute! He obviously wanted to wish me luck.

Encouraged, Danso ploughed on, his broad Dunlending vowels already turning more clipped as the Rohirric sounds were creeping more and more into his way of speaking.

"I jus' were thinkin' as you get near your time, as you might need a charm so as t' keep you safe, you an' the babe, m'lady."

He gulped. He obviously wanted to offer me a charm for the birth but was very nervous about that. Would a charm help? Maybe. Maybe not. I remembered the carvings of the Valar on the roof beams all around the hall. That hunter in the clouds. That voice I had heard.

Maybe a charm was a good idea.

"Do you know a charm that might help me?" I knew that my smile was growing a bit forced as I tried to keep from even thinking, _I don't want a charm, I want a modern hospital equipped to do a caesarean section safely! _

But Danso's eyes lit up and his posture changed as he realized that I would hear him out and receive his good wishes and the charm. "Aye, m'lady. I do know a charm. Me mother she was a bit of a good-wife, she was, so I know some o' the charms. But…" He trailed off, eyeing my considerable bulk uncertainly.

"What is it, Danso?" I asked as friendly as possible. Even though I did appreciate the thought, I wanted him to say his charm as quickly as possible, so that I could go back to rubbing my belly in peace.

"Weeeel," he said, reverting to the low Dunlending drawl of his first days in Edoras because of his nervousness. "Tis like this, mah lady. You 'ave to go and find a dead man's grave and then you 'ave to step over that grave, three times. And as you step you, 'ave to say them words thrice:"

Disregarding the way I shuddered and leaned back in my chair, he closed his eyes and brought his hands together in a universal pleading gesture, while reciting in a low childish voice: "This be my remedy for the loathsome slow birth. This be my remedy for the grievous black birth. This be my remedy for the loathsome misformed birth."

I felt my heart beginning to race with sudden fear and the child was all at once moving frantically inside me, pushing every which way. Danso opened his eyes and smiled beatifically at me. "That way everythin' will be alright, mah lady. With you an' with the babe." He paused, stared at my substantial girth again, then went on. "Maybe Éomer King could carry you?"

He did not sound convinced.

"Thank you very much, Danso," I replied weakly, rubbing my heaving midsection as the child inside slowly calmed down again. "I appreciate that very much. Now run along. Helmichis will be missing you before long."

Danso bowed deeply, then moved backwards until he had reached a distance to me where he obviously considered it safe to turn around and run away, which was exactly what he did.

I remained behind moaning lightly, keeping only just from groaning noisily, because that would have undoubtedly alerted Elaine and Éomer.

And Éomer was presently engaged in a game of the Middle-earth variety of chess with Legolas. Gimli sat at the head of the table, watching and commenting. When they had played first, I had assumed that the elf – with a few thousand years of experience would naturally be the winner. But to my surprise, they were almost evenly matched. I had not known before that Éomer was such a superior strategist. He also really enjoyed that game. With Rohan still firmly in the grip of one of the harshest winters Middle-earth had ever seen, there was simply too little to do for the active men making up the household of Meduseld.

Éomer was training the guards almost every day – the royal guards were the elite of the _éored_, so that was almost normal, but it was also a way from preventing "cabin-fever". Or would that be "palace-fever" in this case? After three months, even a palace gets cramped, so it was the training was necessary for more than one reason.

However, my husband was a very active and energetic man in body _and _mind, so in the dark hours of the winter afternoons and evenings he sought out intellectual distractions. But alas, I was not only a failure at embroidery. I was also a failure at the strategic game of black and white figures that was the Middle-earth version of chess. While Éomer did not care for the first pursuit and was used from his sister to ladies looking for other kinds of entertainment, it was not as easy for him to forgive my lacking skill and inclination of the second. Therefore I was grateful for Legolas' and Gimli's presence, both avid players… Éomer was much more cheerful since their arrival, having been worried about me and quite aggravated at being stuck in the palace and the city all winter before that. I did not want to interrupt the game without good reason.

I leaned back in my chair, thinking that my back would surely give out on me during the next few days if that damn baby did not decide that it was ready to be born and allowed myself a small groan after all.

When I opened my eyes again, Sorcha was walking up to me. She sat down next to me, on a simple wooden stool. Would I ever be able to sit on small stool like that again? At the moment I was no longer able to lie down or get up without help.

"Are you in pain?" Sorcha asked, her green-grey eyes filled warm sympathy.

"Yes," I said through clenched teeth. "And no, at least I don't think in that way yet. I wish I were, though! My back aches, my hips ache, my head aches. And Danso just suggested that Éomer carry me across the grave of a dead man and I chant some rhyme or other to help me give birth."

Sorcha's lips quivered with suppressed laughter, but the dark hint of concern never left her eyes. "He wants to help. He's a good boy, that one. It's good that you took him in."

"I don't think that the baby has turned," I said suddenly. The thought had plagued me for days. There was nothing I could do. I did not want Elaine to reassure me on something for which there was no real reassurance. I did not want Éomer more anxious than he already was.

But I was hurting and in a bad mood and I wanted this pregnancy to be over so much. I wanted to hold that child in my hands! _I wanted my body back!_

I closed my eyes.

"I'm afraid, Sorcha," I whispered. "Oh God, I am so afraid."

I felt her hand on mine. A comforting, warm pressure. "You are healthy and strong, Lothíriel. You have the best healers of all Rohan here to help you. You have a good chance to bear a healthy child and live, even if it has not turned."

I opened my eyes and stared into the face of my friend. But I don't want a _good_ chance! I thought wildly, I want an epidural! _I want…_

I clenched my teeth. I had wanted to come here. I had wanted to marry Éomer. I had wanted to get pregnant. And _now _I wanted my child!

I felt cold sweat at my temples. My back hurt so much. I felt almost unable to move. Was this the beginning? My face must have mirrored my question.

But Sorcha shook her head slightly. "No, not yet, I think you are right. It's not that kind of pain yet. It's only your body slowly getting ready for birth, but not the beginning yet. A bit of pain, like those cramps you had a few weeks ago, meant only to tell you that you are preparing for giving birth. That you are _almost_ there. When your time is really near, you will know. You won't have to look at me to tell you if you are going into labour."

I inhaled shakily. Those "practice contractions" had scared me. However, Elaine, Sorcha and Gosvintha had assured me that it was perfectly normal. When I had calmed down, I had even remembered reading or hearing something about that in my other life. As I knew the baby would not like it if I thumped my fist against the wood of the chair, I contented myself with clenching my hands into fists.

"I want my baby," I muttered. "Now. Yesterday."

"I think you will have your babe soon, before the week is out even. You are restless… that is usually one of the first signs. You won't have to wait much longer." Sorcha took my hand and carefully, gently, opened my fist, stroking my fingers and my palm. "Generations of queens have given birth in that chamber you share with Éomer King, and none have had those things of your world that you told me of to aid them in birth… _epidurals? Cesarins?_"

_Caesarean section,_ I thought. It is called a caesarean section. It's what they do if the baby has not turned, most of the time. But I did not say it out loud, only smiled at Sorcha, grateful for her friendship.

**oooOooo**

The pains started two nights later.

I did not wake at a once, because the pain was familiar.

It sneaked its way into my dreams almost unnoticed.

_Ahhh…nooo… I don't want to be getting my period now… I don't want to get up and tie those cumbersome linen pads into my panties…_

Then, suddenly, I was wide awake.

I stared into the familiar darkness of our bedroom. The baby in my womb lay quiescent.

Was this…? Could this be?

Exhilaration flooded me, driving away sleep and fear. I lay silently and waited.

There!

Again!

Pain!

It felt like the cramps of a bad period. A cold kind of pain. A cramp in the muscles at the front of my lower midsection, but deeper than the menstrual cramps I was used to. Harder than those cramps I had had a few weeks ago, too. I felt my heart skip a beat and a sudden, foolish grin beginning to spread on my face. Very foolish! To be happy about pain!

But I was. For almost endless minutes nothing happened. I concentrated on my breathing and waited. Please, pain, come back! Let it happen! Let it happen tonight!

Suddenly, the pain was back, and I felt my distended stomach react to the cramp, tightening up as if the skin and flesh and muscles were pulled into me, like a net tightening on a huge fish. I gasped a little, remembered how to breathe properly just in time – then the pain was gone again.

I knew when the pain would come back before it did return and managed to breathe the way Elaine and Sorcha had shown me from the beginning to the end.

_This is not really bad, _I thought. _If it doesn't get much worse then this, I am sure I can do it!_

Then the next cramp hit me, and I gasped louder than before. I also felt an almost irrepressible urge to use the toilet, but as I was no longer able to get up on my own, there was not much I could do about it that instant.

When I returned to reality with the ebbing of the pain and the slowing of my rhythmic breathing, Éomer's face was in front of me. He was on his knees at the side of the bed, reaching for my hand. "Is it the babe, _léofest_?"

I grinned at him in answer and squeezed his hand.

"Yes," I said and again I felt only excitement and strength, and no fear at all. "Help me get up!"

"Should I call Elaine first?" Éomer looked torn between relief at my confidence and concern at what was about to happen.

But Elaine, who had been sleeping on a cot in my dressing room during the last few nights, must have heard my gasps and knocked courteously on the door only a moment later.

"Come in!" Relief was palpable in Éomer's voice.

As Elaine reached the bed, the next cramp convulsed my body. I stayed calm and breathed rhythmically, just the way I had been taught. This was easier than I thought it would be!

"I need some light," Elaine asked politely, putting her candle sconce on my nightstand.

Éomer, obviously happy that there was something practical he could do, went around the room, lighting candles and lanterns.

Elaine quickly uncovered my midsection, feeling along my extended belly with expert touches. Holding the candle so she could look at that space between my legs. Just as she was about to straighten up, the next wave of pain shivered across my belly. I marvelled at the sight of that mound of white flesh tightening until the blue veins stood out. It really was not so bad. Elaine followed the path of the pain with her hands, stroking along my sides and down to my hips.

"Yes, my lady," she said finally, smiling. "The babe is on its way to be born."

"I feel restless," I said. "And… I want to use the toilet. Is that alright?"

Elaine nodded and turned to Éomer. "My lord, could you help your lady to get up? I will alert the other attendants."

The others: Anrid, Sorcha, and my Míri, who had arrived only the day before, Gosvintha; and Ini to run any errands.

We had talked about how births were done in Rohan, who would be expected to be there, who could be there…

Most important, of course, Elaine, as the mid-wife and healer. Anrid, because she would be the wet-nurse should I not be able to nurse the baby. Sorcha as my lady-in-waiting. Míriël as my mother. Gosvintha, who had been mid-wife for the Hall of Meduseld before Elaine's arrival.

But best of all: Éomer was expected to be present.

In Rohan, the father was expected to stand by his wife in the moment of birth. He was the one to hold her, to keep her constrained so she did not thrash too wildly, to support her during the long hours of walking during the early labour, to simply be there for her in those difficult hours. And for another reason: in Rohan there was no notary to confirm the birth of a nobly born child. It was the father and only the father who accepted the babe as soon as it was born in an ancient ritual.

Éomer helped me sit up, and held me as I moaned when the pain returned as a result of that movement. He supported me to the chair that contained the chamber-pot.

Well.

I did pee a bit.

But it did not do much for the urge I felt.

Afterwards, I was on my feet and unexpectedly felt like walking. Just as Éowyn and Anrid and Arwen had told me. Your body will know, they had told me. It seemed they were right.

The door opened to admit the other friends and ladies who would provide help and encouragement as my labour went on.

I flung myself – as much flinging as I could do under the circumstances – in Míri's arms, laughing and crying a bit and gasping through another contraction, thinking only for a moment if my real mother would ever know of this child, her grandchild in this far away world.

Then the wave of pain subsided so completely, that I felt extremely silly. Me in my loose blue nightgown, the others completely and conservatively dressed as befitted women of their station, with Éomer keeping to the background, quickly and haphazardly dressed in his leather pants and a loose shirt, too quickly tied, the ribbons trailing down his front.

But Elaine was completely in control. "My lord, would you support your lady? I advise you to keep walking, so the pains won't stop, but increase with the rhythm of your movement."

I slipped on a robe, with Míri making sure that everything was loose and no tie or sash would inhibit my freedom of movement.

Then Éomer put an arm behind my back and took hold of my arm with his other hand, holding me firmly, supporting me with his strength – and his love. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the spicy scent that was Éomer to me, a fragrance that seemed to have diminished during the months of my pregnancy caught in my nose and I inhaled greedily. _It was almost over. I would have our baby!_

We started walking.

**oooOooo**

**A/N: **Thank you again to Aranel, Ellenflower and Frigg for tales of birth and pregnancy. And especially to Narwen who asked her mother many questions, reported the answers at length, went back with more questions… and to Narwen's mother for answering those questions.

I can't give all the sources I used to research pregnancy and birth today and throughout history. There's simply too many. If you are interested, mail me or leave a comment on my LiveJournal and I will give you the list.

The charm I used in this chapter is from the "Lacnunga"- manuscript, that contains a high number of charms and magical elements, from a late tenth- or early eleventh-century codex, British Library MS Harley 585, fols. 130-151v and 157-193.


	105. Pain

**105. Pain**

The exhilaration I felt at the beginning of my child's birth passed as the night wore on.

When the night passed into morning, the world around me began to lose its contours. First to go were the voices of my friends and family, encouraging me and offering advice. They blurred together in rushing sounds that faded into the background like the sound of wind or water.

The next thing that disappeared was their faces along with my surroundings, the images on the tapestries hanging down from the walls and the beautifully carved furniture lining the room and the hallway. I could only see the ground before my feet, the tiles with their fading décor of faintly Celtic knotwork design. My feet began to hurt from our continuous circuit from one end of the hallway to the other. As grey twilight began to flood the corridor, I marvelled at the fact that my endless, fruitless marching had not yet worn a groove into the tiles.

At last sensations began to fade away. The cold draft that had stirred my loose robes at the beginning and that had made my skin prickle with goose bumps. The hard ground under my thin slippers. The tickling of my hair held together at the nape of my neck. What remained were Éomer's strong arms holding me, leading me, as I stumbled blindly along.

But as the twilight of dawn turned into a clear, cold winter morning, finally there was only one thing left of my world: pain.

_I'm not good with pain. I'm not a warrior. I'm not a Rohirrim. I'm not used to bearing pain without medication. Not even after three years._

I guessed that if I had had enough breath, I would have cursed Éomer. I would have ranted at my own stupidity to follow a rainbow into another world. I would have raged against the necessity to produce an heir for this stupid kingdom that had me almost screaming with pain.

_Screaming._

Around noon I lost control of my breathing and began to scream and sob with the agony of labour.

This made them lead me to the bed, where I was laid down on my back and I felt Elaine's tender touch where the baby should be emerging now.

Through a haze of pain, as if from far, far away, I suddenly heard Elaine's low voice drift to me. She spoke in a very low voice. I did not think she intended me to hear and understand what she was saying.

"She is fully dilated by now… but it is as I have feared: the babe has not turned. It is lying almost diagonally. That way it cannot be born."

Éomer's voice. Filled with anguish. He did not think to lower his voice. "But what can we do?"

"There are a few things we can try," was the healer's calm response. "First, I want her to get down on her knees and hands, on all fours. You have to hold her, my lord. She is already weakening. This position, which is natural to all animals, is said to sometimes induce the baby to turn at the last moment. _If that does not help…_" Her voice trailed off. Obviously she was not willing to talk about alternatives yet. "Let's try this first."

_Try this… _

I was quite willing to do anything to bring my child into this world, and to stop the pain. I struggled to sit up, to get up, and then to get down on my knees again. But my knees were weak; my legs were shaking from the pain, and the long hours of walking, stumbling, back and forth through the hallway, all night. If Éomer had not held onto me, I would have simply collapsed and fallen on the ground. But with his help, I made to the ground, coming to kneel on all fours on a soft carpet – red, I noticed, red with white horses. White horses with horns?

_Unicorns… _Why had I never noticed that there were unicorns on the carpet at the foot of our bed?

As soon as I was on my knees another contraction ripped through me. I forgot how to breathe, I gasped for air, and from far away I heard my own scream, a ragged, hoarse, helpless sound that I barely recognized as human, and not at all as my voice.

Éomer held me against him. He knelt at my side. I could feel his strength around me. As long as he was there, there was hope. In the moment of peace after the contraction I inhaled shakily. I tasted Éomer's scent. That beloved, intoxicating, spicy-male scent that lay so close to my skin, so close to my heart. I relaxed a bit and the frantic beating of my heart seemed to slow down.

"Yes, that's better!" _Elaine._

I felt my extended belly almost touching the floor. A cushion was carefully placed between the floor and my stomach. Then I felt gentle hands beginning to lightly massage my belly with an oil that smelled green with herbs. _Athelas? _Pennyroyal, too; fleabane – the sharp tangy scent made me gag – and coriander, a pungent taste at the back of my tongue.

Suddenly my awareness returned.

I found that I could control my breathing again.

A voice from another world floated suddenly into my mind, a memory of my mother praising the virtues of a completely natural birth, "Lamaze, you know: breathing and relaxation techniques! They make giving birth a _joyful_ and completely natural experience for the mother!"

_But you gave birth in the hospital_, I thought. **_You_**_ had an epidural._

But the regular, rhythmical breathing _did_ help. Being on all fours helped, too. It felt better that way. The pains did not feel quite as bad, quite as all-consuming. For a while I was able to float with the waves of pain, inhaling Éomer's body scent and allowing it to soothe me in the painless intervals between the contractions.

Suddenly I felt the urge to push.

From somewhere me behind me I heard Elaine's voice. "No, Lothíriel, no, not yet! The babe has not turned! Not yet! Wait, if you can, wait!"

But I could not wait.

This need _could not_ be denied!

The pain was excruciating.

Suddenly I felt warm liquid trickling down my legs.

I was too hoarse to scream now. My vision blurred in greys and whites. I felt myself slipping away, sliding into a welcome respite of darkness.

**oooOooo**

Legolas waited with Gimli, the harper, Elfhelm, Imrahil and a few other members of the royal household in one of the comfortable sitting rooms behind the Golden Hall. But the elf was not at all comfortable.

The night had passed with no joyful news at the arrival of the long awaited heir of Rohan. The morning had passed with the sounds of Lothíriel's screams growing hoarser and hoarser until they had suddenly stopped.

Now the afternoon was waning and still nothing had happened.

Again and again the elf winced unnoticeably under the onslaught of waves of agony that his acute elvish senses picked up. Mother and child were in pain and there was no progress at all. Of that much the unwed elf was sure. Legolas could feel Lothy's suffering. Her mind had always been almost completely unshielded to his _feä_, lying wide open before his inner gaze: bright, innocent, straightforward; sometimes selfish, sometimes angry, but always brave and intent to do what was right. Now the pain stripped away the little shielding there was between her soul and his seeing mind, _sanwe. _

She would not last.

Her strength and the strength of the child were already fading.

When the urge to push forth the child overwhelmed her, Legolas started, startling his friends who were sitting around the room in silence, gazing into the various mugs and glasses of mead and beer or wine they had been served. When he did not comment on his sudden spasm, they lowered their heads again, only to jump up a moment later.

This time, Lothíriel's screams were so loud that everyone in the room heard them.

Gimli paled. Imrahil closed his eyes and swallowed convulsively. Elfhelm gripped the arm rests of his chair so hard that his knuckles stood out white and blue.

Only the blind harper remained unmoved.

Then, as suddenly as the screams, silence.

Lothíriel's mind-touch slipped into unconsciousness, the pain gone for the moment.

Legolas gasped and leaned back in his chair. He had to admit that he welcomed the silence and the relief of the continuous echoes of pain flowing towards him. But he knew it would not last. And if things went badly, there would be no relief of the pain, wherever he would go…

**oooOooo**

My consciousness returned in whispered words of love and encouragement and the scent of Éomer's sweat in my nose.

I was hurting all over, but as I waited with trembling thighs and arms for the next contraction to come, nothing happened. My failed attempt at pushing the babe that did not want to be born seemed to have stopped the contractions for the time being.

I had lost all sense of time, but my mind told me that this could not have been going on for weeks, that if it seemed to me to be night again, then only one day had passed since the pains of my labour had set in. I turned my gaze to the window. Yes. It was dark again. A deep and dark winter's night pressed against the windows, heavy and cold. A neverending darkness that was reaching for me_ Waiting for me._

"I will try to use this respite and turn the babe with my hands. But I have to tell you that this is a very dangerous endeavour, my lord. It seems that there clings something to the hands of a man or a woman that can rupture and inflame the womb. If that happens, there will be no hope for your wife." Again Elaine had spoken in whispers, evidently hoping that I would not hear her.

_No hope?_

_But the baby_, I wanted to ask. _What about the baby? I did not care, as long as the pain would stop. As long as the pain would stop and the baby would live._

But my tongue was not able to form any words and my voice was gone.

When Éomer answered, his voice was thick with tears. His voice was shaking, in fact, when he replied to the healer. "Do what you can. But if you kill her, you cannot stay here. For I cannot promise that I will not hold the death of my wife against you."

"Yes, my lord."

_No, my lord! _If I had had the strength, I would have turned to Éomer angrily. What kind of king's justice is that? Blaming the healer for things that happen all the time?

_Things that happen all the time… _

Women die in childbed all the time. Who would have thought that this would be my fate?

I felt hands reach for me and pull me up. My knees buckled, but I was supported left and right. They led me to the bed and laid me down upon it. Éomer knelt down behind me and lifted my head and my shoulders into his lap, so that I ended up in an almost sitting position. I could feel his hands on my shoulders, but I could not see his face. His eyes and his smile – but he would not smile now anyway – were lost in the shadows. I could not move my legs anymore. But I felt strong hands, female hands, take hold of my knee on either side and pull them up, draw them to the side, until my lower body gaped at the room, naked and exposed. Sorcha, I thought. To the left. And Míri, Míri, my Middle-earth mother, to the right.

_I would die without having seen my birth-mother again._

Tender touches between my legs again. Elaine doing her work.

Then she reached inside me.  
And it felt as if iron claws were ripping me apart.

I found that I could still scream, although there was nothing human left to that scream.  
It was the scream of an animal in absolute agony.

This time I simply fainted, with no gentle blurring of my vision to ease me along.

**oooOooo**

In the sitting room Legolas went rigid, and this time it was his hands that curled around the carved horse-heads of the arm rests of his chair in a vice-like grip. A low moan escaped him.

As an elf he was able to touch the minds of others, elves and men and beasts alike. This ability made all elves aware of the undercurrents of feelings and thoughts around them. They were like a breeze playing around them, or currents in the water; there, but intangible, unreachable for the most part. For in Arda Marred _pahta_, the closed, the shielded mind, was the normal state of mind for elves and men. However, in times of extreme duress two things might happen. The first: the mind in question might withdraw completely. Normally it required strength and a conscious act of will to withstand the probing mind of an _Elda_, to build up a shield of _avanir_, and yet only another _Elda_ would be able to shut him out completely, in an act of _aquapahtie_. The second possibility was that all shields might collapse, opening the mind completely, releasing all thoughts and feelings in a desperate burst of _feä_.

Lothíriel's shields had been near non-existent in the beginning. Only Glorfindel's careful instructions had made her able to resist the lure of the ring. Now, in peace and wedded bliss, her shields had weakened once more. Under the onslaught of labour, nothing remained to shield her mind from his – or indeed, his mind from hers.

Carefully releasing his breath, Legolas contemplated shutting off his own mind completely, withdrawing and closing all "doors" to the outside. Blessed, shielded numbness of _aquapahtie_.

But for some reason Legolas was reluctant to do so. Once the state of _aquapahtie_ was reached, he would not be able to emerge from it at once. It took time, effort, energy to build those invisible walls around a mind, around a _feä_ – and it took just as much time, effort and energy to tear them down again.

Legolas raised the goblet with red wine to his lips, aware that his hand was shaking, aware of the worried expression on Gimli's face. Gimli knew more about the ways of the Firstborn than any mortal being in Arda except Aragorn. The dwarf was worried about the acute discomfort of his elvish friend; and he knew all too well about the chances and misfortunes of birth. Dwarvish women are few and they do not bear children easily. Even more so than men, dwarves are aware of the dangers and sadness that can come with childbirth as easily as the blessings and the joys. Legolas took a deep gulp of the wine and tried to enjoy the tart taste of the Dorwinion red, the soothing trickling of liquid down his throat. He did not really taste anything at all.

For once Legolas was glad that he had no wife yet, and that his wife – should he ever find an _elleth _with whom he desired to join and have children – would not have to endure such pain. Birth was exhausting for elvish women, too, in body and mind, but it was not the painful ordeal it was for mortal women.

Legolas sighed and put down the goblet.

How he wished he was a healer of his people at the moment! How he wished that there was any way he could help his friend, Éomer King!

The elf closed his eyes for a moment, reaching for his friend with a gentle mind touch. He encountered tight shields, vibrating with fear and turmoil.

As Legolas' eyes flew open again, he felt his heart race with the intensity of the shielded emotions he had touched but briefly. Again the elf debated with himself to withdraw into the deepest places of his mind, effectively shutting away all pain and fear of the men around him. But when he had almost decided to build up these invisible shields between his _feä _and this world of men and pain, the harper seemed to catch his eyes.

Of course this was impossible; the harper was blinded, his eyes burnt out holes of agony. Yet as Legolas looked at the harper in that instance, he felt the touch of something strange, something infathomable… had the harper been an elf, he would have said it was the touch of a powerful _feä _telling him silently to remain, not to shield… _but of course that was impossible._ Mysterious though this blind bard might be, he was not a Firstborn, for none of the wandering harpers of old were left in this day and age of Middle-earth, not since Maglor had been lost…

Legolas exhaled softly and forced himself to relax.

If his friend Éomer could endure this pain and fear with no alleviation at all, so could he. The least he could do was to suffer with his friend.

_If only he had chosen the path of the healer and not the path of the warrior…_

**oooOooo**

I was not dead.

_Unfortunately_, was my second thought, as I shuddered through another contraction.

Then I opened my eyes and stared at Elaine. Elaine stood at the foot of the bed, white-faced, her hands and arms smeared with blood and slime up to her elbows.

_My blood. My slime_, I thought dimly.

Strangely enough, I did not really care.

The pain passed. Fatigue followed in its wake. I closed my eyes and fell into an uneasy slumber for the few minutes of peace I had until the next contraction woke me, gasping and moaning, legs shuddering, agony passing in visible ripples from my breasts down to my pubic bone.

Faces and words lost their meaning again.

The only anchor to this world were Éomer's hands holding my shoulders.

Of Míri and Sorcha at my sides, holding my hands and my knees I was not aware anymore.

But there were still words, floating through the room like snow in the wind.

"There is nothing left I can do for Lothíriel."

"But what are we to do now?"

"We will have to wait."

"And then?"

"Not here! She can hear us!"

"I can't leave her now! What then? Tell me!"

"When… _if… _she loses consciousness for the last time… I can cut the child from her womb. It may live…"

"Oh, Eru! Oh, Valar! Be merciful!"

_But if my child is going to live_, I mused, _then Eru **will **be merciful!_

**oooOooo**

"Is there nothing we can do?" Legolas suddenly broke the silence of the sitting room.

It was way after midnight. There was no news from the royal bedchamber. There were no more screams, not by Lothíriel, nor by a newborn babe.

"My friend," Gimli said in a low, comforting voice, although painful sympathy with the proceedings in the royal chamber was plainly visible in his eyes. "There's naught a man can do for a woman in her plight. And you are one of the Firstborn – what would you be able to do for a woman of the Aftercomers? Especially for her?"

_Especially for her…_ who was not even one of the Secondborn of Arda to be exact. Legolas and Gimli both knew by now, just how far Lothíriel had come to be wife of Éomer King and Queen of Rohan.

"_Ai!_ Why did I not spend more time learning the art of healing? I can mend broken bones and clean wounds left festering by the vile weapons of the orcs, yet aiding a friend in her need I cannot!" Legolas exclaimed, suddenly losing his elvish self-control. The long hours of waiting, the utter sense of helplessness were getting to him a way the dangers of battle and war had never done. "Is there really nothing we can do?"

"No, my friend," this was Imrahil, grief and defeat clearly audible in his voice. "This is a battle our women have to fight alone. There's nothing we can do but wait."

"He's right, Legolas," Gimli said softly. "Tis a woman's thing, to bear a child. A man can only hold his wife in these painful hours and hope. And rejoice afterwards…"

Silence spread through the room.

"…or not," added Gimli in a low voice, well aware of how often there was no rejoicing, but only two burials instead.

Legolas sighed. He sat back down again, covering his face with his palms. He was acutely aware how Lothíriel's last reserves of strength were melting away as the second night of labour passed into morning.

The harper sat unmoving, his sightless eyes trained on some invisible object in the distance, his head slightly cocked to the side as if he was listening.

The hours went by and in the East a clear winter sky began to light with the dawn of a new day.

**oooOooo**

"Is there really nothing we can do?" Éomer's voice was filled with despair.

Silence.

I heard how I gasped for breath. I was barely aware of how the contraction shivered through my weary body and passed away again, leaving me to this strange kind of dazed slumber between life and death.

"I am so sorry, my lord," Elaine's voice sounded thick, as if she was trying to hold back tears. "I do not think that there is anything left we can do."

_Oh well, _I thought weakly. _I have tried. I have done the best I could._

Would I feel it, when they cut open my body to save the child?  
Would I perhaps be able to hear it cry at least one time?

Then the darkness came for me and put an end to all questions.

**oooOooo**

**A/N: **The information about the abilities of the elvish mind are from an excerpt of Vinyar Tengwar No.39, Tolkien's essay "Osanwe Kenta".

**oooOooo**

* * *

**  
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_Anything at all:_ if you noticed a typo, if you don't like a characterization or description, if you thought one line especially funny, if there was anything you particularly enjoyed…

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Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter.

Yours   
JunoMagic


	106. Ósanwe and the Music of Life

**106. Ósanwe and the Music of Life**

Finally Legolas got up from his chair and left the room.

_How could his mortal friends stand this agonizing time of waiting?_

The elf started pacing the hallway. The hallway was spacious and well-lit with lanterns, set in elegantly crafted sconces at regular intervals . No sooty torches in the palace of Meduseld. The carpet under his feet was thick and soft. His swift steps made no noise at all, as he wore only light leather slippers even in the depth of winter.

He tried to remember the last birth of an elvish child he had witnessed, but failed. Although the Sindar living in Eryn Lasgalen were still fairly numerous, not many couples had chosen to create new life during the years of growing darkness in the Third Age. And he could not remember ever having heard of an elvish woman screaming with pain… indeed, the only elvish woman who had _died_ – had laid down her _hröa _as a consequence of giving birth was a name of ancient legends to him…

A birth ought to mean the beginning of live and _not_ the painful end of a life! Or _two_!

Unconsciously his way had led him to the royal apartments. He was greeted by royal guardsmen. One of them he recognized, Helmichis, the fair haired captain of Lothíriel's guard. Helmichis was pale and his eyes were wide and dark with barely suppressed emotion. Legolas looked away.

For a moment he considered turning back and retracing his steps to the sitting room where the others waited in silence.

But in the next instant a door down the hallway opened – the door Legolas remembered from the festivities of Lothíriel's and Éomer's wedding. A scene of drunken laughter, good-natured ribaldry and flushed, happy faces flashed through his mind. Now the familiar figure of the tall, broad-shouldered king of the Mark stumbled out of that door. Opposite of the door was a window to the inner courtyard of Meduseld. Éomer leaned heavily on the windowsill, his head bowed, his shoulders slumped and shaking.

Legolas hastened to stand next to his friend. "_Mellon nîn,_ how fares your wife?"

Éomer slowly turned towards his friend. The expression on his face was terrible to behold. He was pale, his face a frozen mask of pain and shock, his eyes black pits of despair. Here was a man, a warrior and a hero who was close to collapsing into a heap and sobbing like a child.

Legolas had to exert a conscious effort not to recoil at the sight of so much helpless pain.

"The babe has not turned. The healer says there is nothing we can do. When Lothíriel is dying she is going to try and cut the child from her body." As Éomer rasped out those words in an almost voiceless whisper, his eyes filled with tears and he turned away from his friend in an almost violent movement.

Legolas felt his heart flood with pity. _Ai! _What a strange gift Ilúvatar had given to the Secondborn! To live in such painful circumstance and for such a short, almost infinitesimal moment in time – and with no knowledge of whither their journey might take them from Arda?

"Is there really nothing we can do?" Even as he spoke those words, he wondered if he had not done better to keep quiet. Éomer jerked around to face him again, anger born of despair rising beneath his helpless grief.

Suddenly a cool draft touched Legolas' neck. The door to the bedchamber opened once more and the healer stepped out of the room. Legolas knew Elaine of Tarnost. Her skills as a healer were spoken of even in Eryn Lasgalen, and there were a number of rangers in Ithilien who had to thank her for their lives. It was said that in Elaine the skills of Mithrellas had returned to Middle-earth. But Legolas only had to look at her face to know that even her skills were defeated at the moment.

Elaine was not pale; her face was flushed with effort, a few dark strands of her hair had escaped from the knot. There was a spot of blood on her high forehead and her apron was covered with dark spots of dried blood and crusts of slime. She looked into his eyes and for a strange moment, Legolas experienced a sensation that almost equalled that moment of instant connection that marks the meeting of two of the Firstborn. _Almost…_ A fleeting moment of rapport, then it was gone.

But it was enough to make him repeat his question. "Is there really nothing we can do?"

Elaine went very still. In that, too, she seemed more like one of his people than one of the Secondborn, Legolas mused. Maybe the tale of Mithrellas, the elvish ancestress of the line of Dol Amroth was true after all? He had suspected it was true after his first meeting with the Prince, but in Imrahil's niece the sense of elvish blood was much stronger.

Finally Elaine replied, keeping her voice very calm and very careful. "There might be something. I had the good fortune to spend some time with the Lady Galadriel and the Lord Elrond, talking about matters of healing; in Minas Tirith, three years ago, when King Elessar was crowned and married."

"But you just said –" Éomer's eyes flashed with wild fire. Legolas put his hand on his friend's arm to stay him. He could see in the healer's eyes that whatever she had thought of was not something _she_ had the power to accomplish.

"My lord," Elaine said hurriedly. "It is a thing of the Firstborn, something I only heard speak of, something I have never seen –"

Legolas inhaled deeply. _A thing of the Firstborn. _"Go on, my lady. What is it you thought of? Both the Lady Galadriel and the Lord Elrond are healers of the greatest renown among my people. If they told you of something that might be done yet, then we should attempt it."

_We?_

Again there was this spark of almost-knowledge in Elaine's eyes, an ancient, almost faded connection of blood and power. "They said that Elves can reach the minds of men and beast – and even unborn babes. The babe has not turned, but I felt it moving just a moment ago. It is weak to be sure, and the contractions have squeezed it terribly, lying almost diagonally as it does. If you, my lord, can reach the child in the womb, if you maybe could _tell _it to turn, now that Lothíriel is unconscious and the contractions have stopped for the moment, maybe there is a chance that it be born and live –"

"And Lothíriel?" Éomer interrupted.

A look of deep compassion swept over the healer's tired face. "I do not know, my lord. Her life rests in Eru's hands. She has lost a lot of blood and she is very weak. If she can survive a final effort to give birth – should my lord Legolas be able to inspire the child to turn – I cannot tell." She lowered her head. "I am sorry, my lord, that I cannot give you more hopeful an answer."

Legolas stood and allowed the healer's words to sink into his mind.

_Could he reach a babe's feä? Could he – as he was able to will a horse to run where he willed it to go – make a babe turn towards the way of life?_

He had never thought of using mind-speech in such a way. _And why should he have?_

Suddenly an icy shiver of fear washed down his back. If he had sought the blessed numbness of _aquapahtie_ when Lothíriel's screams and pain had torn his heart, he would not be able to even attempt what Elaine now asked of him.

For a moment Legolas had to close his eyes. _Calm be the heart._ The beating of his heart slowed to a heavy, regular rhythm. _Easy be breath._ His breath flowed lightly and freely. _Powerful be feä and hröa._ He felt energy flood through his mind and body again.

He opened his eyes and met Elaine's gaze. "Lead me to Lothíriel. I will do my best to accomplish what you suggest."

Elaine inclined her head and turned for the sleeping chamber once more.

When Legolas made to follow her, it was Éomer who held him for another moment, a shaking, cold hand on the elf's arm. "Thank you, my friend," the proud king whispered and this time he did not even try to hide his tears.

Legolas nodded in silence.

_Oh, mellon nîn, but what if I cannot bring about what the healer suggested?_

_She only heard talk of it! Two of the greatest healers of my people were the ones she heard talk about this! I am not a healer; my road has always been that of a warrior, and only lately that of a gardener!_

But Legolas did not voice his thoughts and entered the royal bed chamber behind Elaine.

**oooOooo**

The room was filled with the stench of fear, blood, various bodily fluids and a strangely familiar fecund smell. After a moment's deliberation, he realized that this humid not-quite stench reminded him of the breaking of the waters, when his beloved horses were about to foal.

Legolas swallowed hard and had to suppress the urge to gag.

Lothíriel lay on the bed, unmoving, naked, inert.

A servant girl was straightening new sheets on the bed and in a corner of the room Legolas caught sight of a basket filled with soiled and bloody sheets and blankets.

Lady Míriel of Dol Amroth sat at Lothíriel's left side and held her hand. But, Legolas realized, not to give comfort to the young queen. She was making sure that Lothíriel's heart was still beating, her fingers tenderly searching for a pulse.

Sorcha, another of Lothíriel's ladies in waiting, was just finishing washing Lothíriel's unresisting body.

"She slipped into unconsciousness a few moments ago, my lord," Elaine explained. "We are trying to use this respite –" Again he felt that he could almost touch her thought: _"If a respite it is…"_ –

The healer exhaled shakily, then continued. "We are using this respite to make her as comfortable as possible."

Legolas stared at Lothíriel's body. He had never seen a naked woman like that before.

He had, of course, glanced at a few pretty _ellith _in the public baths, both in Eryn Lasgalen and on visits to Lothlórien. But even that had been in passing, never at leisure, never to really _look _at their bodies… He had never seen an elf like this, so completely _exposed_… and a mortal woman?

Legolas had chosen the path of a warrior early in life and in the ever deepening darkness of the Third Age he had closed his heart to the _ellith_, the girls and women of his people, lest he and his chosen one be separated all too soon by the Sundering Seas and the endless darkness of Námo's halls. And now, in the early days of the Fourth Age, the sea longing was an endless pain in his heart that would drown any sweeter emotion long before it could blossom.

Indeed, Legolas had almost resigned himself to the fact that for his eyes to enjoy the charm of a naked female body and his hands to roam those gentle curves, he would have to pin his hopes to the white shores of the Blessed Realm.

But now he looked upon Lothíriel's naked body and found it hard to suppress both shock and fascination.

She looked so small lying in that huge four poster bed!

Sorcha moved away from Lothíriel's body and began to braid up the queen's tangled, long brown hair again, now and again gently stroking her friend's forehead.

Lothíriel's womb seemed huge and bloated in comparison to the rest of her body, and thick blue veins stood out from the pale skin like paths circling a high white mountain. Her breasts, obviously swollen with milk, rested above her distended belly like gourds, the nipples almost red and the size of cherries.

But her lips were almost blue and he could not discern the ebb and flow of her breath. Though she was still alive, for he did feel the weak, lingering touch of her _feä_.

He stood and stared, until he realized that the women in the room were all looking at him, staring at him, as he in turn stared at Lothíriel.

He forced himself to breathe evenly.

"I will try what you suggested, my lady," he said finally, glancing back at Elaine.

"Please, my lord," Elaine replied and gestured him to the bed.

_How to go about this?_

Again Legolas felt himself almost overwhelmed with an unfamiliar and all the more frightening feeling of helplessness close to panic.

To touch another's mind – the swift-polite touch of _Elda_ meeting _Elda_, the reassuring, directing thoughts that accompany the gentle caresses with which an elf controlled his steed – it was a matter that was as natural to him as the gift of speech that had given the Firstborn their earliest name as a people, the _Quendi_, the speakers.

But how to touch a _feä_ that was not yet born, a being he could not touch, a being he could not see?

Legolas took another step towards the bed, feeling awkward to look down upon Lothíriel's prone body, relaxed into exhausted unconsciousness. They had propped many cushions up behind her back, so that she was elevated into an almost sitting position. Her legs were spread far apart and he could not help but notice the swollen, bloody flesh between them, and the gaping, empty hole. Fresh blankets had been carefully stuffed under her lower body. Blood trickled from her body. Not much. But she was obviously torn somewhere inside.

It did not feel right to see her thus, exposed, unconscious, completely helpless.

A memory of the war against Harad flashed through his mind, an evening at the border of Harondor, the southern-most province of Gondor they were trying to keep safe…

…_a camp-fire and a dreamy-eyed Éomer who had probably more than just one ale too many and was all too ready to confide to his friends just what he loved best about his Lothíriel._

_And indeed, it seemed that there was nothing Éomer did **not** love best about her. The way she could **not** sing or sew. The way she smiled. The curves of her hips and the roundness of her thighs – especially when those thighs locked him tight against her body… Upon that remark happy drunken laughter had overwhelmed Éomer and a deep longing had started burning in his eyes for all to see who could. They had joined in his laughter, and then it had been Faramir's turn to elaborate on the virtues of his beautiful Rohirric wife, grinningly ignoring the stern scowl of his ever protective brother-in-law…_

Legolas came back to the present with a start, his gaze again on Lothíriel's blue lips and her drawn face.

It was not right to see her thus, exposed, naked, as only her husband should see her.

It was not right, nor proper.

But to leave her thus – unthinkable.

**oooOooo**

He approached the bed and knelt down at her side. He did not reach to touch her, to keep up at least a vestige of propriety.

He placed his hands – what should he do with his hands?

He placed his hands against the edge of the bed, instinctively searching for a physical connection to Lothíriel and the child that Elaine had promised was still alive in her womb. Then he closed his eyes. Not that it was necessary, but the disconcerted stares of the women in the room, the desperate hope in Éomer's eyes were too distracting. Better to seek the warm dark, but disturbing peace that awaited him behind closed eyelids.

Legolas reached out with his mind.

The swirling thoughts and emotions in the room were almost too much to bear. He had to force himself to delve into the dark depths of his _feä_, and not to open his eyes again, fleeing from the presence of so much fear and pain as was gathered in this room.

After a few moments he was able to cast aside the thoughts and emotions of those present around him. All their shields were fairly tight, only the very turmoil of their hearts and souls was seething beyond the boundaries the humans had instinctively laid on their _feä_ as they grew older. Of Elaine he sensed nothing at all, her shields were indeed strong enough to ward off any Firstborn but the most powerful. As he had read in his friend's eyes, Éomer was close to breaking down. Legolas did not want to witness this pain _feä_ to _feä_, though he knew he would, should the worst come to happen.

Of Lothíriel's shields only frayed remnants remained. The pain and fear of more than two days of hard labour had worn away at the fortifications of her _feä_, she had painstakingly erected under Glorfindel's directions; like a rushing river wears away at even primary rocks, until they are hollow and collapse into scattered pebbles and boulders.

He caught an echo of her last conscious thoughts.

_"I have tried. I have done the best I could._

_Will I feel it, when they cut open my body to save the child?_

_Will I perhaps be able to hear it cry at least one time?"_

He forced himself to reach beyond these thoughts towards that other life that would be there, still contained within her _hröa_…

He _knew_ it would be there.

Yet when he touched the child's _feä _he was still so astonished to feel this youngest of all lives he had ever encountered that he drew back, gasping for breath.

He stared at Lothíriel's body, seeing it suddenly with new eyes. Suddenly he did not see only the unfamiliar, swollen, naked body of his friend's life, unnaturally still when it should be writing with life, with two lives! Suddenly he saw that _new_ life, this new person, as it was curled up inside the womb, confused and weakening, by some strange mishap of fortune not in the position it had to be so that it might be born…

He inhaled deeply.

_Healer or not. This child would live. And Lothíriel would not die._

But when he reached out with his mind for a second time, the presence of the young _feä _had withdrawn. Possibly the mind-touch, slight and swift though it had been had frightened the babe.

Cold fear washed over Legolas again.

Had this short moment of hesitation been fatal?

Had this moment of indecision risked all that could be won here today?

It was an effort to calm his suddenly racing heart and to keep his breath even and light. He knew that he would not be able to resume contact with the child at a distance. He drew a shaky breath and rose to his feet again. Then he turned to Éomer who was watching him from a few feet away, his face pale, his hands clenched into fists.

"I have to touch her. The child is alive, I felt it for a moment, but then it was gone, it withdrew. If I may touch her, I think that might help."

Éomer nodded wordlessly.

Legolas turned to the bed again, and this time, he knelt down on the mattress next to Lothíriel. For the time between two breaths he hesitated again. He realized just how carefully the Lady Míriel who was still sitting on the other side of the bed was not looking at him, in an effort not to add to his discomfiture. But there was no time for him to dwell on any misgivings he might have!

He inhaled again, forcing his breath into the slow relaxed pattern, calming the flow of his thoughts into the soothing rhythm that would make _ósanwe _easy and clear even across wide distances. Then Legolas placed his palms on Lothíriel's distended belly. The flesh was very hard, cramped muscles pushing against his hands, and the skin was too cold, from loss of blood, exhaustion and shock.

This time, as he reached out, he encountered not even a remnant of thoughts belonging to Lothíriel. But he did not dare to take the time and ascertain the strength left to her. He delved deeper, as deep as he dared.

_And there!_

A tingling sensation! Pain! Discomfort! Confusion!

A sense of aliveness without self-awareness!

Of course not, a corner of Legolas' mind observed. He – yes, it was a male _feä_, there was no doubt about that at all – he was much too young to have any awareness of himself, any sense of identity.

But if there was no identity there, no personality – how should he convey the necessity of turning, of moving, of risking even more discomfort?

Words would be of no use at all in this situation!

He had to free himself of the concept of speech, of the sense of reaching out for another being. Although he sensed the _feä_ crying out in his unborn distress and discomfort, there was no coherence there, no sense of time, no sense of space…

Legolas let go of his world.

He let go of the sun and the moon, the bed under his knees, the cold, resisting flesh of Lothíriel under his fingers.

He let go of himself, of the son, the warrior, the gardener, the friend.

He let go of his memories – be they woods or war.

He let go of his feelings – be they desire for the sea or the final refuge he might one day find in love.

Finally there was only his _feä _left, pure spirit, as he had not been since his earliest days, and maybe not even then.

He flowed towards the unborn _feä _of his friend's son and engulfed it.

Two drops of rain or dew, clear and pure in the earliest light of morning, they clung like pearls to the slender curve of a single blade of grass, their lifetime, until they met, collided:  
mingled,  
gleamed as one in the sunrise, for the length of a breath,  
an inhalation,  
an exhalation  
– and fell together.

_You have to move, little one._

Not words. Only a sense of movement, of urgency – and love.

_Turn around quickly, search for the way out._

But only eager confusion met him.

_Where to turn when there are no directions?_

_No above and no below?_

_No before, and possibly no afterwards?_

Legolas came out of his trance with a gasp.

"He's alive," he rasped, his voice strange and ragged to his ears. "The babe is alive, and he would turn now, but he does not know where to turn to! He has no sense of time or space at all yet!"

**oooOooo**

"You really touched the babe's mind? _His_ mind?" Elaine's voice held astonished disbelief and immeasurable relief.

Éomer's eyes were fixed on him as if the fate of the world rested in his hands.

Legolas looked at the still form of Lothíriel, the slight twitching of her swollen stomach a tell-tale sign of the feeble efforts of its occupant to do what he had asked: _move, turn around…_

The fate of Éomer's world did rest in his hands.  
And he had no idea what else he could do to keep it safe.

Slowly Legolas slid down from the bed and stepped back. Elation at having succeeded in establishing mind-contact with the _feä _of Éomer's son warred with despair. "How can we help the babe to find the way?"

_And if… when the babe has managed to turn in a way that will allow him to be born – will Lothíriel have the strength to push him forth?_

"I don't dare to try and guide him with my hands," Elaine said. "When I tried this before, he stopped moving altogether – and Lothíriel is very tight: there is almost no room to manoeuvre. I would tear her even worse than I already did… and then…"

She did not continue. But her comment inspired the other women present to voice their thoughts. A flurry of whispered suggestions was exchanged, of charms and potions and treatments of ancient lore, but all of them were discarded. For according to Elaine all of them were harmful for mother or child or both.

Finally silence settled in the room once more, heavy with defeat.

"There has to be a way!" Éomer's voice was pleading. A fine trembling had taken hold of the strong frame of the warrior. Legolas could see that his friend was on the verge of crying once more. Legolas lowered his head, the memory of the mind-touch painfully fresh.

_One touch, and then nothing? Valar, will you really allow fate to be so cruel?_

Suddenly a strange noise broke the silence in the room. A sound like a small cough, an awkward clearing of a throat. Legolas raised his eyes again.

The young servant girl, Ini, was making an effort to speak, her cheeks flushed with nervousness. When she spoke, her voice was thin, her words almost garbled, so quickly did she speak. "Me brother's a herdsman, a herdsman of them cows. An' it so happens, he's often alone out in th' pastures with them as they be getting their calves. An' it's right bad if th' calf doesna' turn, right. Th' cow will die, and th' calf, too. An' me brother's no tall, aye, he's right delicate. So he's not strength to reach into them cows and turn th' calves by force. He jus' canna' do that. So he's this trick. An' he swears by it. Says it works every time! Like magic! He calls it th' music of Eru-up-above."

Lady Anrid, Elfhelm's wife, had grown visibly more uncomfortable and discomfited with every sentence voiced by the servant girl in the thick dialect of the plains. Now she held her hand up to silence the girl. "Thank you, Ini, but Lady Lothíriel is not a –"

But Elaine was already shaking her head at the lady and Éomer's eyes blazed angrily; the king was ready to clutch at any straw that promised a solution. "No, let her speak, none of you had any suggestion on what to do now. Whatever magic her brother uses cannot be worse than no idea at all!"

Éomer turned to Ini, and kept his voice even and friendly with an almost inhuman effort. Ini stared at her king for a moment, her eyes round with fear, her mouth open. Then she closed her mouth, swallowed hard and continued more slowly, speaking much clearer than before.

"My brother'll play his flute, m' lord. He says as he walks down the side of the cow, very slow like an' he plays that flute, like, along the side of the cow an' then he reaches –" She hesitated, blushed even harder, at having to say such a word in the presence of her king, then continued as quickly as possible. "An' he reaches – its – its backside an' then he keeps a-playin' there, an' he says as it was music as created all life, all new life will turn to the music an' that as he keeps a-playin', weeel, th'calf, it follows the music an' then it pops out like a lark!"

Legolas stared at the servant girl, barely taking in the open-mouthed stares of the women in the room, or the way Lady Anrid averted her gaze in embarrassment for the servant in her charge or Elaine's expression of tense concentration.

_"…as it was music as created all life, all new life will turn to the music…"_

Indeed, all life in Eä had been sung into existence in Eru Ilúvatar's _Ainulindalë._ Could it be possible that in this bit of herder-lore the key to saving the life of Lothíriel's babe was hidden?

"In Dol Amroth there is often a harper in the room during a woman's most difficult hours," Lady Míriel remarked thoughtfully. "It is said that it helps with the pains and the babes are quicker to be born."

"'Tis true," Sorcha said. "When I had my Solas, my aunt kept singing to me, and for a time, I remember, I hummed right along with her and it soothed me."

A shared sigh swept through the room, a gentle breeze of hope. All eyes turned to Elaine, awaiting the healer's verdict. "As I recall," the healer said slowly, "Lady Galadriel told me that the Elves use music, too, to – to help the parents focus on the task of bringing forth life she said, I think… At the very least I am sure that it cannot hurt either Lothíriel or the babe –"

At this moment Lothíriel's eyes fluttered in reaction to a contraction rippling across her belly again, no doubt brought on by the sudden movements of the babe. A hoarse moan made everyone jump and the women hurried to the bed.

"Go get the harper, Legolas," Éomer called out and rushed to the bed, kneeling down next to his wife and clasping her hand against his cheek.

Legolas ran from the room.

**oooOooo**

**A/N: **

**Mind-speech is canon:**

If you want to know more about "mind-speech" á la Tolkien, I recommend Tolkien's essay "Osanwe-kenta" or "Ósanwe-centa" in Vinyar Tengwar No.39.

**Breech birth: **

Many thanks to Narwen and her mother, a real life gynaecologist who answered all my questions!

_Last chapter:_

Breech birth can be done naturally if the baby's presentation is not too unusual and it is not too big. There are birthing positions that help with getting the baby to turn. The midwife might also try to turn the baby from outside and by reaching inside. But in real life a difficult presentation like Elfwine's would probably call for a caesarean section.

_This chapter:_

In earlier centuries many women died of complications during childbirth, sometimes simply because of exhaustion after days of labour. Even today many women and children in the poor countries of this world do not survive birth.

Music as a means to get a baby to turn:

That is actually a real life method (!) though of course it would not be used at this stage of delivery. Actually the method apparently involves moving a playing radio (or iPod? grin) over the skin of the belly and downwards, to get the unborn baby to follow the sound and turn around.

**oooOooo**

* * *

**  
Please feel free to leave a comment!**

_Anything at all:_ if you noticed a typo, if you don't like a characterization or description, if you thought one line especially funny, if there was anything you particularly enjoyed…

I am really interested in knowing what my readers think about what I write.

You can find my replies to the comments in my fan fiction LiveJournal, user name: juno_(underscore)_fanfic, tagged as "Lothíriel – comments". Simply look for the chapter you commented on and you should be able to find my reply!

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter.

Yours   
JunoMagic


	107. A Rohirric Ainulindalë

**107. A Rohirric Ainulindalë**

As Legolas hastened down the corridor, his keen elvish ears picked up how the conversation inside the royal sleeping chambers continued.

"But sire, that grizzled old harper? Surely that is not appropriate! And I have heard that you need virgin boys if you want to put a charm on a woman to help with the delivery, so maybe it should better be the boy?" Lady Anrid was clearly out of her depth and flustered at the latest developments.

"I don't care about propriety," was Éomer's answering bellow. Then he went on in a low, shaking voice, no doubt hushed by the healer Elaine. "I want my wife and child to survive!"

Legolas started to run. Within seconds he arrived at the sitting room. For a moment he hesitated in front of the door. He inhaled deeply. How would the harper react to this unusual request?

Legolas opened the door. The atmosphere in the room was subdued and thick with the tension of mounting despair. The elf felt choked, as he entered, endeavouring to keep his face calm and unreadable, wishing neither to raise hope where there was little reason for it, nor to diminish what little hope was left. "I come from the king. Harper? A word with you, please. Outside." Legolas nodded politely to the others, then turned around and fled from the expressions in the faces of his friends – hope and fear focused on him. Too much hope and too much fear.

The harper rose to his feet in a surprisingly smooth and fluid motion, following Legolas quickly and without mishap in spite of his blindness. Outside, the harper turned to face Legolas unerringly, and for a moment it seemed to Legolas as if… "Sir? What can an old bard do in such a situation?" the harper's speaking voice was strangely husky.

Legolas inhaled deeply. He hoped the old harper would not be too shocked by the request. "My kindred are capable of connecting with the spirits of each other, with the spirits of animals – and as I found out moments ago, also with the spirit of unborn life. The babe has not turned, but he is still strong and now it would turn, having been… for lack of a better expression… made aware of the necessity… only he does not know where to turn to. Where he is, there is no sense of space or time, only of warm darkness. A maid-servant suggested showing the way with music, playing the pipe against the mother's nether regions… a trick that seems to work with cows," Legolas winced at the uncouth choice of his words, but there was no time for gallantry. How long would an unborn _feä _retain a memory? If they did not hurry, Lothíriel would be too weak to bear the child no matter if her son turned or not. "And the healer, Lady Elaine, she heard talk among my own people, revered healers of my people, that music can be used to help a woman in labour."

"I am to play my flute against the queen's womb like the pied piper of Pelargir? Luring the babe out of her body? Is that what you want me to do?" the harper asked, his words concise, his manner of speaking surprisingly calm and unmoved. There was only a hint of tension to the scarred flesh surrounding his marred eye sockets.

"Yes," was all that Legolas could think of to say, a sound of relief coloured with a tone of urgency.

"Taliesin, go fetch my pipes and bring them to the royal bedchamber. Knock once, but do not enter." The bard did not even turn around to face the child – and how had he known the boy was even there? A shy, fair haired shadow standing off to the wall a few paces away. Legolas had not really been aware of the presence of the boy. Now the boy bowed quickly and ran off, lightning fast, racing down the corridor and streaking away into the flickering lights and shadows of the hallways.

"Then let us go to the royal bedchamber, my prince. Taliesin will be back with my pipes in a moment."

"Of course." For a moment Legolas was not sure if he ought to offer his arm to the blind bard, but the old man turned around without waiting for further comment or offer of assistance and headed off down the corridor. His stride was long and careful; as if he was taking in his surroundings with senses other than his eyes, allowing him to move almost as smoothly as a seeing person, but only almost. As Legolas hurried alongside the harper, he grew aware of the fact that the old man was as tall as he was, and if his back and shoulders were not so horribly bowed and bent, he would be taller, taller than any man he had ever seen. And even so, blind and crippled, the harper's movements were as smooth as those of a young, powerful man, if contained and careful.

Then they reached the door to the chamber and there was no time left to consider the mystery of the old harper. As Legolas raised his hand to knock on the door, he saw a small shape running towards them from the other side of the corridor. It was the harper's boy, carrying a silver flute. Obviously there were short-cuts in the palace of Meduseld that Legolas knew nothing about.

"Very good, Taliesin," the bard said in a friendly voice. "That was quick. Wait here. I might need you."

"Very well, sir," Taliesin bowed again and stepped to the side of the door, standing very straight and quiet, obviously willing to stand there without moving and waiting for as hours if necessary.

Legolas knocked on the door, trying to suppress his fear and apprehension. When he entered the room he was relieved that they had opened the windows for a bit. The stench of blood and birth waters was not quite as rife in the room. Lothíriel moaned and writhed in pain, but she was not really conscious. Her eyes were closed. Éomer sat at her side, his face pale and tinged with the grey shadows of weariness. Legolas was reminded of an expression his hobbit friends were fond of using: "pale as a sheet". No, the solid white of the bed sheets was a healthy, strong colour compared to what his friend looked like.

"The harper is here and willing to try the trick," Legolas said.

Éomer stared at them both. Legolas could see that the king was trying to find words, but failing. But how did the harper understand? The harper's voice was incredibly soft and soothing, when he added, "Sire, I will do my best. If the pipers of old could charm dragons and lure all the children forth from a city, why should not I be able to play a tune that makes your heir burst from your wife's womb dancing and merry-making?"

Elaine, who had been on the other side of the bed, talking with Lady Míriël, with a hint of a smile on her face. Deep, plum and turquoise shadows surrounded her eyes. The healer straightened up, in a visible effort to gather her last energies.

She turned to Éomer. "Would you please kneel on the bed, behind your wife and pull her up against you? If we manage to turn the babe, we have to rouse her quickly."

"Couldn't we let her rest first?" Éomer's anguish was painful to hear.

Elaine shook her head. "She has lost too much blood, my lord. –" It seemed she wanted to add something, but thought the better of it. "Please, sire, pull her up, into an almost sitting position and hold her firmly."

Then Elaine looked at Legolas. "I think you should try to reach for the child again, if that is possible."

Legolas felt his stomach tighten with nervousness. He licked his dry lips. His mind and heart felt strained from his earlier efforts. _Would that he were a healer! Would that he were not a Sindar, a wood elf of subtle powers, but one of the shining lords of the Noldor…_"Of course, my lady."

Éomer had pulled off his shoes and now crawled onto the bed, moving behind his wife. Lothíriel moaned louder, her eyelids flickered. Legolas watched as the flesh of her body rippled with the wave of a contraction. The spasm seemed to originate from deep inside her, convulsing the flesh of her swollen body in a rolling movement of pale skin ever downwards, downwards to where her soft dark curls were matted with blood and gore. The veins stood out on her belly like greenish snakes. The elf swallowed hard. Éomer drew Lothíriel up against him, Sorcha and Gosvintha, standing on either side of the bed, kept a good hold on Lothíriel's legs, keeping them up and parted widely. Legolas inhaled deeply. Blood and birth water, anguish and hope.

He went to the bed and knelt down at Lothíriel's side again. Ini, the maid-servant, offered him a bowl with water to wash his hands. The water was laced with herbs, _athelas_ and a few others, all of them known to prevent infection. Legolas quickly washed his hands and then placed them again on Lothíriel's womb. The flesh was too cool to his touch. _She has lost a lot of blood. _Veins and muscles strained against his palms, the last contraction ebbing away. Legolas felt his hands trembling. What if this last attempt failed?

Elaine led the healer towards the bed. There was no room for shyness or modesty here, in this time and place, between life and death. And the blind harper could not see the queen lying there, after all, naked and straining, with a steady, thin trickle of blood pouring forth from her torn body.

"Now, my prince," the harper said, his voice filled with warm reassurance. "Do this Elvish trick of yours and I will play a merry tune for the little prince to dance to."

A nervous chuckle greeted this attempt to lighten the atmosphere. For a moment Legolas wondered how the harper knew that he had to reach for the babe first…

But then he closed his eyes, forcing thoughts and fears out of his mind, reaching once again for that cramped place of warm darkness that contained this sweet young _feä_ on the brink of life.

This time it was easier for him to reach the babe, maybe because he knew what to look for this time and what to expect. He let go of himself and floated towards that spark of life in the darkness. He felt himself welcomed. A rush of happiness engulfed him and flowed out to the young _feä_. If it was possible, he thought the little spark of life would have smiled.

_Time to turn, little one._

He tried again to convey a sense of urgency and movement.

_Time to be born, melui nîn._

Again, he was surprised by the cheerful willingness to do what was necessary. And this time, he was ready for the sense of confusion and fear that lay underneath this seed of courage and strength.

It was then that the music started and in that music flowed a power he recognized as one of akin to his own. He only just managed not to break contact with the babe's _feä._ This was impossible! How could the grizzled, bent old harper shine with such power?

But there was no time to dwell on this riddle now. Carefully he strengthened his connection to the babe. He could feel the tiny being's excitement at the music. The light and energy of its _feä _was vibrating with the rhythm of the melody.

_Follow the music, gûr nîn._

Just flow along with the sounds, follow the melody, move with that rhythm, let the power of the song of creation move you. For that was what it was, this melody! It was a faint echo of the Ainulindalë. The holy song of life itself. The music flowed through the _feä _of the babe and into his own. He _felt _the babe move, a wiggling, squiggling motion, a clumsy push of energy that was so strong that his connection to the babe was broken.

**oooOooo**

I lay in feverish dreams that were intermittently penetrated by weakening onslaughts of pain, when suddenly I felt hands on my stomach. Long and slender fingers that melded themselves against my flesh. Soothing energy seemed to spread through me and I felt my laboured breathing grow easier. In the darkness my heartbeat grew stronger and more regular again, and like the fluttering of a butterfly's wings, barely audible, barely palpable, was joined by the echo of another heartbeat. I thought I heard music, the clear, happy melody of the harper's pipe. Such happy, confident melody! I felt hope return to my heart and struggled to open my eyes again, but I was so weak that I did not find the strength.

Suddenly a pain gripped me that was stronger than any contraction before. My eyes flared open as I screamed in agony. My whole body seemed to churn, I felt as if my back was broken and my organs smashed into a pulp. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the pain was gone, taking with it the awful, hard pressure of the baby's head against my ribs. The pressure that had told me for weeks that the babe had not turned, the pressure that had turned into such pain during the contractions, making breathing almost impossible.

I gasped for breath, staring around wildly, for a long moment the scene in the room did not make sense to me at all. How long had I been unconscious?

I felt Éomer's hands on my shoulders, the warmth of his body behind me. But to my immense surprise Legolas was kneeling at my side, with his slender, elegant hands placed on my womb. Looking at my midsection, I had the feeling that something had changed – it felt different. It looked different.

At the foot of the bed the harper was kneeling, playing his silver flute in a merry, lilting memory. I had not imagined that!

But why were Legolas here? And why was the harper playing his pipe between my legs?

Then realization hit me in time with another contraction.

Elaine's voice disrupted my thoughts. "If you have any strength left, Lothíriel, then use it now. Push as hard as you can!"

I did not think I had any strength left. But I grabbed for Éomer's hands. I pressed my legs against the firm grip of Sorcha and Gosvintha. I felt the contraction travel down towards my opening and tried, tried, tried to follow it, grunting and moaning helplessly.

But it passed and nothing had happened – apart from that I knew what _had _happened.

"It's turned!" I gasped when my womb lay quiescent again. "It's turned. Can I have it now?"

I turned my head to look at Elaine. Elaine looked horrible, so weary. But there was a smile on her face and her eyes were bright. I did not need to wait for her answer. "Yes, you can, Lothíriel. You can do it."

"Draw her farther up against you, my lord," Elaine ordered. "Your wife is too weak to move on her own. We will have to help as much as we can."

I felt Éomer trembling behind me, but he drew me up against him in a firm, strong motion. His face was wet with tears and his eyes red-rimmed. But he was smiling. I even managed to smile back at him, before the next contraction came.

I tried with all I had left, thinking only _now, now, now._

But again, nothing.

Elaine stroked over my womb and down. "He lies perfectly now, only a little longer."

Then she hurried away from the bed. When she returned, she carried a glass with a little bit of dark fluid. "Drink this, Lothíriel. It will increase the pain, but it will speed up the birth."

The shadows in her eyes told me that while she did believe there was hope for me to bear the child now, it would be a close thing. I closed my eyes and swallowed. The drink was bitter and would have made me gag if I had had the strength left.

"Now, Sorcha, Gosvintha, pull her legs up a bit more, and hold them very firmly. She needs as much hold as she can get. Legolas," she held out a pot of salve to the elf who stared at her with a shocked expression. That was almost amusing, in a strange, unreal way. "Use that, yes, take more. Yes, about that is enough. And now, when the next contraction comes, rub her womb with that on your side, gently pressing downwards with the rhythm of the contraction, smoothing the salve over the skin. I will do the same here. Míriël, get everything ready for the babe."

Elaine knelt down on my other side, scooping a large dollop of salve out of the pot, before handing it back to Ini. "Please, keep playing, Harper. Just let Lady Míriël step in front of you so that she can catch the babe. If we are lucky, the next contraction, or at least the one after that might get the child out."

The harper stepped back without breaking the soft flow of the melody and making sure that he did not move away from an invisible straight line running from my womb through my opening right to his flute. Had the music made my baby turn?

But before I could follow that thought, I was again gripped by a contraction.

I put everything I had into the effort.

But I was so weak.

I was almost unable to catch my breath afterwards and I felt helpless tears running down my cheeks. Here was a last chance to bear my baby and _still_ nothing was happening. Elaine's hands slowly stroked down my womb once more, Legolas following her every movement.

"Don't give up, Lothíriel! You are almost there."

I could not stop crying, but when the next pain came, in a convulsion that bent my spine and seemed to almost make my head explode, I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, clenched my teeth and pushed with the very last bit of my strength.

I pushed, pushed, pushed.

There was nothing left of me but that single, bodily effort.

Suddenly the pushing changed into bursting, flowing, gliding. There was something hard yet soft between my legs, and as Elaine and Legolas stroked down my womb with the ebbing of the contraction, I felt a quick, wiggling, slippery motion between my legs.

Míriël bent forwards, I could see her reaching for something, Elaine hurried around to the foot of the bed, there was a silver flash of the metal of scissors in the firelight. Ini held out white linens, I could see they were holding something that was moving, wriggling, I tried to catch my breath, tried to make a sound, but I had no voice left and no strength to move at all –  
when, suddenly, the cord cut, the mouth, the lungs cleaned of any residue, a baby's cry filled the room. It was not the angry squall with which Elboron had greeted the world. It was clear, high-pitched squeal. Almost like a happy chirrup of a little bird.

_My baby!_

_My baby's first scream!_

Elaine walked around the bed, in her arms a tiny body, wrapped into soft linen, body and linen smeared with blood and slime, her hands, her forehead equally dirty, but her smile exultant. She laid the baby between my breasts and took my hands. I could not have moved my hands to touch my baby, so weak was I. But she did that for me. She gently placed my hands on the tiny back, the still wet, hot back of my baby, who was still chirruping happily. I cannot say what I felt, apart from the stream of tears still flowing down my cheeks and a sense of endless relief and gratitude. I stared at the small round head with its wet curls of thin, dark hair, the dark blue eyes unfocused, but calm, and I could not stop crying.

"He's a very pretty baby-boy," Elaine said. "Míriël, the last contraction will come soon. Take the baby when you see it coming. Legolas, I need you to stroke downwards with the womb once more when it comes. She will need your help to expel the afterbirth. I will have to try and staunch the bleeding."

The pain came before I could stop crying, making me gasp at its intensity, unexpected in the bliss of finally seeing and holding my baby. Míriël quickly reached for the baby, holding him safely in her arms, while I moaned with the last pain. I felt Legolas hands stroking, pushing with me, and this time his touch hurt me, too. I screamed once more, a small, hoarse scream, that upset the baby into high-pitched squeals, so that the gentle melody of the pipes was rendered inaudible. I felt myself spill forward, I felt a flood of blood and thicker things flow through my opening and I could see that Legolas was growing very pale, his eyes widening. I felt the warmth drain from my face, and a fine tremble was shaking my body. I could not feel my feet and legs anymore at all.

Before I could fight it, everything went black.

**oooOooo**

**A/N:**

_minuial__ nîn_ – my sweet, my dear

_gûr__ nîn_ – my heart

**oooOooo**

* * *

**  
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Yours   
JunoMagic


	108. A Pledge of Friendship

**108. A Pledge of Friendship**

As I felt my eyes close and cold darkness was pressing in on me, I wanted to whisper something like "I just want to doze a little bit," to reassure Éomer. For surely everything was alright now, with the baby born. But my lips would not move and I felt weighed down, immobilized by the darkness, heavy and cold and helpless.

After a while, the heaviness began to drain out of me, being replaced by a feeling of lightness, as if I was made of liquid, I was light as a feather, and if a wind came, it would pick me up and carry me away into the darkness…

I noticed that I was slowly drifting back to consciousness, almost as if I had done nothing but dozing, although a small, sane corner of my mind knew that it was not so. Long days of labour and loss of blood… I was so exhausted. Maybe I would die after all, but I was too tired to care.

Before I reached consciousness, before I could open my eyes to the world again, I was assailed by sounds and smells.

The thick, bitter-sweet fragrance of blood, the acrid-salty taste of fearful sweat mingled with the musky scent I recognized as Éomer. And… something new… something softer and sweeter than I had ever smelled before. The scent made my breasts tingle and hurt.

"Will she be alright now? Why doesn't she wake?" Panic in Éomer's voice instead of happiness at the birth of his son.

"She is very exhausted, my lord. And she lost a lot of blood," Míriel, sounding almost sorrowful.

"The afterbirth came out completely," Elaine's words held deep weariness. "But there was too much blood."

"My lord Legolas, would you keep needing her womb? If you massage this balm into her skin, it will help the muscles to tighten. I think she will wake soon… I'm only glad that I could get the stitches in before she regains consciousness."

"Of course, my lady."

Elvish hands massaging my newly flaccid stomach. Gentle, but strong.

"Is there nothing we can do?" Tears. I could hear tears in that question. Now I really wanted to wake, but my eyes were still so heavy… try as I might, I could not open them. Instead I felt as if I was sinking back down into this ocean of heavy, cold darkness. I shivered. I wanted to wake, for that sweet, soft smell…

"Yes, there is something we can do, my lord. First we will make your wife as comfortable as possible. Then we will see if she can nurse the baby."

"But if she is so tired?" Éomer asked, his voice worried, tired and a little bit angry.

Gentle hands lathered the aching flesh between my legs. Then I felt pads pressed into place firmly and tied around my hips. Quick, expert touches.

From somewhere the melody of a flute drifted into my darkness, and the lilting notes seemed to glow in the darkness like fireflies. I tried to follow them, and felt the darkness slipping away.

Suddenly I was awake.

I opened my eyes to a room that appeared strangely clear in front of me. Almost as if I was watching a movie…

Exhaustion and blood loss, I mused.

Éomer was still holding me, sitting behind me, his hands warm and reassuring on my shoulders. I was dressed in a clean shift and a thick new blankets were spread over me. Between my legs I felt a bulk of padding. But I also felt that there was still a steady trickling of blood, a gentle, seemingly unstoppable flow from somewhere deep inside. Thinking about that made me feel light-headed to the point of delirium.

I wanted to reach for Éomer's hand, but found that I was too weak to move my hand.

"She's awake! She opened her eyes!" Éomer bent down over me, placing a kiss on my lips.

His beard was spiky and hard, clotted with tears and sweat. I gasped.

"Now we will try if she can nurse the baby." Suddenly Elaine was back in my field of vision. She had slipped on a new apron and washed her hands, but on her forehead was a large, black smudge of flaky, dried blood.

I wanted to ask where the baby was and indicate that I did want to try and nurse it. My breasts were so heavy on my chest, the only part of my body that I still seemed able to feel, except the touch of Éomer's lips and his beard so bristly against my face.

"But she cannot move!" Éomer sounded almost belligerent. "Shouldn't you allow her to sleep?"

"No, my lord. Suckling the babe may constrict the muscles of her womb and that way the bleeding may be stopped." Elaine sat down on the bed, taking my hand and looking at me attentively until she was sure that she had my attention. My hand felt so far away from me as if it was not my hand at all.

"It is not yet over, Lothíriel. You are still bleeding. If the bleeding does not stop, you will not survive the night."

Oh.

I felt my lips prickle, with a mild shock of surprise. Exhaustion must have muddled my mind.

It sounded reasonable.

I tried to swallow and lick my lips. I wanted to hold my baby again.

My voice seemed to come from far away and was hoarse as if I had been screaming for a long time. I frowned. I probably _had_ been screaming for a long time.

"I'd like… the baby."

Elaine smiled. "We have to try and see if the wean will nurse. He's a bit tired, too, the little prince. But it's important to try. Suckling the babe may stop the bleeding."

"Okay," I whispered, relaxing into Éomer's embrace, grateful for his warm hands on my shoulders, even though I could feel his tension, feel how he tried to keep from shaking.

"But…" I coughed. The spasm made my midsection almost explode with pain. Tears gathered in my eyes, even as Elaine pressed firmly down on my stomach, stilling the agitated muscles. Elaine seemed to know what I had been about to say. "Éomer will help you to hold the babe."

Then she turned her head. "Míriel? Are you ready?"

"Yes," Míri's voice was… strange… almost strangled with emotion… almost overflowing with love. "Here he is."

Suddenly she was standing next to Elaine. I must have drifted off to sleep for a few seconds. I had not seen her move at all. My eyelids seemed to be aching with weariness. And there was no way I could move at all

If anything, I would have wanted Éomer to let me lie down on my back…

Míriel held something in her arms. A bundle wrapped in white linen and a red and green blanket, embroidered in gold. That soft sweet scent reached my nose again, and again tears burned in my eyes.

That bundle was my son!

Suddenly the bundle was moving and the tiniest pink fist waved in the air. A gurgling noise made me tense up. I wanted to hold out my arms, I wanted to ask to hold him, but my arms seemed to be made of rubber, it was impossible to find words…

"Now, we'll see if this little prince of Rohan is hungry," Elaine smiled. She leaned forwards and pulled the blanket down my breast. My nightshift was tied at the neck with a thick red cord. She loosened the bow and pulled down the fabric, exposing my breasts.

They were swollen to the size of gourds and dark, almost red. The nipples were the size of cherries. They tingled at the touch of the cool air.

Elaine bent over me and moved my left arm across my body.

"Now, my lord, lean forwards. Support your wife's arm and be ready to hold your son safely."

I felt Éomer swallow hard. I would have laughed, but I was too weary.

He briefly squeezed my hand. This small gesture made me once again aware of his bodily strength. He would hold me and our son and none of us would fall.

"Míriel? The babe."

Míriel moved forwards, holding the babe expertly, supporting the tiny, round head with its fluff of dark golden hair. He was still a bit red and wrinkly, I noticed, but he did look like a real baby. And then he opened his eyes. And they were Éomer's eyes, dark and beautiful – and completely unfocused. I felt a smile spread across my face, even as my nipples began to actually hurt with a pressure building up inside me as if I was about to burst.

Míriel placed the baby on Éomer's and my arm, while Elaine positioned my right arm and hand in a gesture to gently cup that small round head, again wrapping Éomer's larger hand around mine, so that he was holding my arms and hands to help me holding our son.

I found I could smile and cry at the same time.

His cheeks were like tiny peaches, and his nose was so tiny and delicate, and his ears so crumpled and red.

Suddenly he moved, and his cheek collided with my nipple.

At the touch, something in my body welled up, almost like the tide rising up in the sea, a powerful flowing that cannot be contained. I stared in wonder how my nipple tightened up and suddenly a trickle of white appeared at its tip.

Wow, I thought. That's really working.

I could smell it, too. It did not smell like milk, it was a sweeter smell, pungent, and not really a good smell, I mused. Our son, however, was of a different opinion. The moment the white liquid started flowing, he screwed up his face, moving his tiny nose almost like a dog intent on his prey, and turned his head with astounding force.

Elaine smiled and adjusted the baby's position, so that he could reach the nipple.

And that's just what he did.

He latched on with a powerful bite for such a tiny creature. The grip of his mouth on the overly sensitive skin of the nipple was almost painful. Then it felt as if a stopper had been pulled. I felt as if my very essence was spilling forth, flowing, flooding…

It was a feeling of release that was so powerful that I almost lost consciousness again. I felt as if I floated away from my body, tied to the earth only by that one almost painful touch on my breast.

"Wonderful, he's hungry!" Míriel.

"Yes, indeed, he is!" A smile was clearly audible in Elaine's voice.

"Now, let's turn him so she will be able to sleep for a few hours. I think this might just do the trick."

Éomer exhaled heavily behind me and I was back in my body, staring in wonder at the small rosebud mouth with trickle of milk running down to his chin. Míriel and Elaine worked together to put the baby to the other breast, helping Éomer again to hold me.

This time our son did not even wait for the first trickle of milk, he aimed, took hold – and drank.

This time I was prepared for the sweet flowing release as the tight pressure inside my breast was released. I felt Éomer's arm under mine. I felt the silky, damp curls of the baby's under my hand, Éomer's hand cupping my hand in turn, Éomer's warm strength at my back. Scents mingled around me, Éomer's spicy male scent, with now just an aftertaste of fear, the pungent smell of milk, and the happy soft fragrance of baby – and only very faint, the fragrance of blood.

"I'm so happy," I whispered. And although my voice remained thin and hoarse, the words came out alright. I felt Éomer's embrace tighten around us. "I am happy, too," he replied, his voice a blanket of love warming our small family.

Somewhere out of sight, the flute kept playing.

**oooOooo**

Finally the movements of the baby's mouth against my breast slowed down. His eyes were closed now, screwed shut almost after this enormous effort of nursing. His lashes were amazingly long and almost black, strange compared to the golden fluff on his head…

I felt my eyelids get heavier, too.

When he released my nipple, my body felt warm and heavy. I would not move even the world was coming to an end. I was slipping off to sleep, as the sound of Elaine's voice caught my attention again.

"Will you accept your son now, my lord?"

"I would like the queen to be awake for the ceremony," Éomer's voice was a deep, soft rumble against my spine.

"But my lord, 'tis ill luck to wait, and people will wonder…" Anrid's voice was flustered. I had forgotten that she was in the room.

Quiet, almost gentle, Elaine added. "My lord, though I do believe that your wife will wake and eventually will recover her strength… may the Valar and Eru keep her safe, I would not call it wise to wait. 'tis a noble thought, a credit to the love you share. But you have to think of your son now and your realm, too. He has to be accepted and named as heir tonight."

I felt Éomer shift uncomfortably behind me. I groaned at the movement. I was beyond tired. It was a miracle that I even remembered my name…

Name…

I would like to know our son's name before I fell asleep for good.

"My lord, you will have to get up anyway. Lothíriel should sleep now, and she won't sleep comfortably now, no matter how loving your embrace."

Éomer's assent was rather a growl.

I woke completely, when Míriel and Elaine held my arms to allow Éomer to move away from behind me. Careful as they were, I hurt all over when they helped me lie down in the pillows.

The pain also woke me once more.

I felt as if weeks had passed. Weeks of darkness and pain, interspersed with the most wonderful music and all-encompassing happiness. Very weird. Could you get delirious from child-birth?

Éomer sat down at my side and reached for my hands. I was still too weak to really return his pressure, but I did enjoy that loving touch.

He kissed my hands. "I am sorry I woke you again, _léofest. _They insist that I accept and name our son now. And they are right – this is law and custom among our people. And only that way our son will be considered the legitimate heir of the kingdom."

I would have nodded if I was not so terribly weary and weak. "What…" How could it be so difficult to voice such a simple question? I tried again, and felt my temples pound with the effort. "What will you name him?"

Éomer turned his head. I followed his gaze and realized that Legolas was there, standing still and hesitant at the foot of the bed. The elf looked unusually pale and quite dishevelled, there was a streak of dark liquid smeared across his tunic that had to be my blood.

What a bloody mess giving birth was, I mused. Then it had not been a dream after all, that Legolas was here. He must have helped somehow.

Éomer's next words proved that. Gratitude was palpable in Éomer's voice. I had never heard someone sound that grateful, in fact.

"I would like to name our son for the people he owes his life and his mother's life to."

There was a hint of stubbornness to the way he added "his mother's life".

I would have sighed and reassured him that I'd be alright. But I was so tired. And I was not at all sure that I would be alright. I was only too weary to care. But the memory of the warm bundle pressed against me, the rushing ecstasy at feeding our son made me feel almost hopeful.

Éomer turned back to me. "Legolas is the one who managed to turn the babe, when hope for your lives was almost lost."

I felt my mouth grow round in an inaudible "oh".

My eyes searched Legolas' brilliant gaze. There were tears in the elf's eyes and a wavering smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Oh," I managed to breathe. _How could we ever thank Legolas for that?_

Éomer answered this question that I was too weary to ask. "Therefore I will call our son Elfwine, elf-friend, and the line of my blood will be true in their friendship to the Firstborn forevermore. This I swear, aver and affirm by the life of my wife and my firstborn son."

"To this we bear witness," many voices echoed all around the room. Wow, a real gathering… and I had barely noticed.

"I will now pick our son up from the floor where Lady Míriel has laid him down, and with my blood I will give him his name and accept him as my son and heir." He kissed my hands again, then gently placed them on the blanket.

I would have wanted to say something like "Good, good," and grinned my happiness at him, but I think the best I managed was a vague smile.

Somehow, the world around me was acquiring a dreamlike veil once more, as exhaustion was about to suck me away into the darkness of slumber or faint once more. I gritted my teeth. I wanted to witness the acceptance and naming of my son.

_Elfwine_, I thought, _little Elfchen… _ And found that I perhaps was still able to grin.

Then Éomer moved away to the centre of the room, standing near Legolas who had turned away from the bed, looking down at the floor, where our son must be lying now, invisible to me.

I did not see how Éomer bent down and picked Elfwine up. I did not see how Éomer cut his hand to daub his blood on the forehead of his son. I did not see how Elfwine screwed up his small, red, wrinkled face and sneezed, but I heard that he did not cry – and felt inordinately proud at that.

And I did hear Éomer's voice, filled with so much love that it was almost painful, that I felt I could burst with the answering of love I felt inside me.

"I, Éomer Éomund's son, accept thee as my firstborn son and heir of my kingdom. I name thee Elfwine Éomer's son. Thy name be a pledge of friendship between my line and the Eldar forevermore."

"To that we bear witness," the choir of soft voices echoed once more around the room, and echoed on in my mind, but the echoes grew faint quickly, until a warm, quiet blanket of darkness covered me and I fell asleep.

**oooOooo**

**A/N: **I would like to thank Aranel Took for the quick and thorough proofreading of this chapter. Huggles! You are the best of friends!

**oooOooo**

* * *

**  
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JunoMagic


	109. Long Live the Queen

**109. Long Live the Queen!**

"Rugrat," I told the baby on my arm, who was pressing his small round cheeks against my breast, smacking his lips and pushing against the fabric of my dress. My breasts promptly began to tingle and tighten in response to the baby's nudging. Finally I gave up on trying to listen to the Harper and Taliesin performing a new song in front of the fireplace. I held Elfwine a bit away from me and shook my head at him. _Little greedy-guts._ My son smiled at me. A wet, slobbery smile. And he smacked his lips again. Without the music this would have been quite audible, too. "You can't be hungry," I told him. "You just had something… _two hours ago_?" Elfwine had not only inherited his dad's golden curls and dark eyes, but also an appetite of truly Rohirric proportions.

I sighed and hoisted Elfwine against my shoulder once more. He was getting heavier. There was no doubt about that. My milk and the first bits of creamy porridge spooned into him by Gosvintha were showing a definite effect. Elfwine was quite a bit taller than he had been three months ago. And a good deal heavier. I left the hall and entered the small sitting room just behind the hall on the right. Éomer had had a wide, low rocking chair built for me, using my exact measurements, with the back at an angle that was perfect for nursing.

I closed the door and was grateful to find that the fire in the sitting room had been rebuilt. I was cold almost all the time, but even from an objective point of view it was still quite chilly at the end of March with the snow only just beginning to melt. I settled down in the rocking chair, awkwardly clutching my wildly waving son in my left arm, while fiddling with the draw strings of my gown with my right hand. "Don't be so impatient," I muttered. "Mami macht ja schon…"

Finally my breasts lay bare and hard, the nipples puckering up huge and red in reaction to the baby's squirming against them, the pressure of the milk almost too painful to bear. I adjusted my hold on Elfwine and almost sighed with relief when he started sucking. Breastfeeding my baby was not quite the romantic experience I had thought it would be. At least by now I was able to gauge from way he moved his mouth just when I had a chance to switch him to the other side without soliciting angry wailing. And switching breasts was necessary; even though Elfwine seemed to be always hungry, he was _not_ always hungry enough to drain both breasts completely. So I had to take care to switch sides in order to get rid of enough milk from both breasts to stand a chance for a few hours of undisturbed sleep. Waking with painful, inflamed breasts was not a good way to wake. It was also not especially funny to wake with a painful pressure in my breasts before Elfwine was ready to eat. Elfwine was a good sleeper. He was also regular as a clockwork in his hunger at night. And Elfwine did _not_ like to be woken when he did not want to eat. He liked his rhythm. And for the most part, I liked his rhythm, too. He was a much better baby than Anrid's son.

"You are a good baby," I whispered. I was so tired. So _damn_ tired. I was too tired to even yawn. Fatigue seemed to have become a near constant ache deep in my bones. I looked down on the baby's head, golden and pink against my breast. The skin of my breast and my hands seemed almost translucent compared to the ruddy complexion of the baby. I sighed. To be completely honest, I _felt_ almost translucent. Even three months after the birth I had not regained my strength. "A very good baby." I repeated. He was, I thought. Such a good and cheerful baby. A good eater. A good sleeper. A real charmer. Healthy and sweet.

Now, finally sated, he turned his head up to me and warbled something unintelligible, but to my adoring ears it sounded almost like a "thank you". I grinned at my motherly foolishness. Well, at least I could imagine it sounded like that. I shook my kerchief out of my sleeve and dried off the mixture of drool and milk flowing down from the right corner of Elfwine's mouth. I really wanted to wear an apron, like Ini and Gosvintha did. That attire was so much more convenient with a drooling, spitting and shitting baby in my arms for many hours of the day. But of course the queen could not possible wear an apron. Queens wear gowns. But gowns are not made to withstand the daily needs and mishaps of babies.

"At least I have become quite adept at shaking kerchiefs out of my sleeves, sweetie. I bet it looks almost like sleight of hand, real wizardly trickery!" I moved him again to my left arm in order to tie up my dress again. I was also getting really good at baby juggling, I mused. Elfwine was getting drowsy, his tiny eyelids with those perfect dark lashes were fluttering. I laid him between my breasts, a bit diagonally, so that his head came to rest near my neck on my right shoulder. From nursing, my breasts were so big and so sensitive that it was not comfortable to have the baby pressed right on top of one of them. Luckily he fit quite snugly between my breasts. For the time being, at least.

"Now how about some burping, sweetie?" I gently patted his back, the bit of green velvet warm and precious under my palm. I had refused to see the baby bound tightly in swaddling cloths, as Anrid and Gosvintha deemed it proper. I had not budged in that argument. There was no way that my baby's arms and legs would be bound tightly until his first birthday. Finally they had indulged my whim in this matter. There were benefits to being queen. Sorcha had made the first little frock for Elfwine. By now Elfwine was in the possession of a full chest with tiny gowns, tunics and frocks made of various, sometimes very expensive and precious, materials. It seemed to be the "in" thing at the Meduseld this spring to make baby clothes for the new prince among the noble ladies. And because my little prince was growing quickly, he was constantly in need of new baby clothes. The ladies at court were thrilled.

Once again, Elfwine did not feel like burping. I sighed. Sometimes that procedure took him more than an hour. But by now I knew better than to try and put him to bed without taking care of that. The resulting colic would not be pretty. I felt my baby's small heart beat gently against my shoulder. I held him with both hands, the right at his bottom, the left on his back. The soft rocking motion of the chair and the warm, heavy weight of the baby along with the cosy-sweet smell of my own milk was almost enough to make me fall asleep on the spot.

I was always, _always_ tired these days. I sighed softly. I knew why I was so tired, of course. The birth had been more than touch and go for me. It was probably more than a small miracle that I was still here at all. And it was for the most part due to this small, living and breathing wonder that was slumbering on my chest now, that I had not… I gulped and very carefully, so as not to disturb the baby, released a shuddering breath. _That I had not died. _The old midwives' trick that nursing the baby often helps to tighten up the muscles of the womb and can thus stop the bleeding had worked with me. And the needs of my baby had tied me to life, when I was closer to death than to survival for several weeks. I had been so weak that I could have easily died from sheer exhaustion, slipping away in my sleep, if it had not been for the baby. And for Elaine, who insisted on waking me every few hours to nurse the baby, to hold the baby, and later to burp the baby and even to change the baby, no matter how exhausted I was, no matter that I was still bedridden. Elaine had seen to it that I had no chance to leave, simple as that. Now, although I was still tired and weak, I would probably live. Provided, of course, that I did not catch a fever as the season changed from winter to spring.

Winter was considered a bad time to give birth for a reason. Many a young mother in Rohan and Gondor died from spring-fevers, still weak and anaemic from giving birth. Elaine had been completely honest with me when I had asked her about my chances a few weeks ago, around the time when I was able to get up again for the first time. Even now, sitting comfortably in this warm room, with the soft curls of my baby tickling my neck, I was not yet safe. It was not yet certain that I would live to see my son grow tall and strong.

I turned my head a little and pressed my lips against the silky golden fuzz on Elfwine's head. "You know, I'm just happy that I lived long enough to see your smile." A small huffing noise was all the answer I got. Sadly, no burp yet. I tried patting his back again. The huffing turned into a low grumbling sound that reminded me of a much deeper grumble, reverberating in his father's chest. I thought of Elfwine's father, sitting in the hall right now, pretending to listen to the songs and stories, but secretly impatient to be in the bedroom with me and his son, for some songs and stories shared only between the three of us.

I felt myself beginning to smile. I could not think of Éomer and _not_ smile. He was such a fiercely passionate and protective father. I inhaled the sweet scent of my baby's hair, whispering into his curls, "It will be fun to see how your daddy reacts once you want to court a girl. I bet that not the most beautiful princess in all the Western lands will be deemed good enough for you!"

After a moment's silence I went on. Talking to my child always calmed me and drove away fears and worries about the future, about the lingering fatigue that sometimes seemed to rob my days of all light. "You know, I bet you will look a lot like your dad once you are grown. Your hair might turn a bit darker. You also have my chin, and my ears. But you have your dad's beautiful eyes. You'll drive the girls mad." My smile turned into a broad grin, as I imagined a tall young lad in the uniform of the Riders of the Mark, and a gaggle of shy girls dreaming after him, as he rode up the hills with his _Éothéod_. Then I sighed, feeling my back beginning to ache despite of the comfort of the nursing chair. It was high time for bed. "Okay, my proud warrior! Now burp, you scoundrel!" I boosted the baby up a bit and tickled him a little under his arms. Sometimes that worked.

To my immense relief today was one of the days that this trick worked. A strangled noise emerged from my son, along with a bit of half digested milk, which quickly seeped through the kerchief and into the shoulder of my dress. _And thus thou shalt know a mother…_ I rolled my eyes at my completely oblivious son. By wet, stinking spots on her shoulders.

_And then…_ I felt Elfwine's body suddenly tightening purposefully under my hands. There was a muffled spluttering noise and I wrinkled my nose at the acrid smell of fresh shit. As the door opened as if on cue and Ini entered the room with a deep curtsy, I was hard put to suppress a sigh of relief. Ini had an uncanny knack for knowing just when Elfwine and I needed her. "Is he ready to be changed for the night, my lady?"

I tried not to breathe and swallowed dryly. "Yes, indeed he is." Careful not to touch his bottom anymore, I handed the baby over to my maid-servant. Then I automatically checked my gown for yellowish spots of overflowing baby-shit. I exhaled gratefully. I had been lucky this time. Ini was holding the baby with one hand under her apron, to make sure that he did not drip on her good dress. "I'll have him ready for his lullaby in half an hour, my lady."

"Thank you, Ini."

The girl managed a graceful curtsy even with the baby in her arms and quickly left the room, noxious fumes wafting behind her. _How was it possible that such a small human being could shit and stink like that,_ I wondered. Then the smell slowly abated and I breathed more deeply. Once again I experienced a small twinge of guilt at the fact that I left the nastiest chores of caring for my baby to my servants and my ladies-in-waiting most of the time. But somehow I could not bring myself to offer to change Elfwine after he had completed his big business more than once a week. And I had to admit that I was more than relieved when I was granted the "privilege" of changing my son's diapers only every other week.

I remained sitting in the nursing chair for a while yet. As always, when I had to part with the warm, soothing weight of my son, I needed a few moments to feel at home alone with my body. _A trick of nature_, I mused, that mothers should feel so incomplete without their babies. _To make sure that we take extra-care of them. As if I would not, no matter what…_

Suddenly I grew aware that the music in the hall beyond had stopped. Ini must have sent a servant to tell Éomer that we were ready to go to bed. _Ini was a real treasure._ I was right. Only moments later the door opened and my husband stood in the flickering light of the lamps. His hair glowed golden in the soft light of the flames, and his eyes glinted so dark and lovely that I felt a familiar liquid tug of desire inside me, even before he smiled at me. "Time for bed, my love?"

"Yes," I replied and got up. And almost stumbled and fell. I was still unbalanced so damn easily. Éomer knew better than to say anything, but he was at my side and supporting me at once. For a moment I experienced an idiotic impulse to grumble at him irritably, or shake off his supporting arm, but I kept my silence. If I made it through spring without a cold and without a fever, I would be steady on my feet again come summer. _I would._ I clenched my teeth. _I so would._

**oooOooo**

When we entered our room, Sorcha was already waiting there to help me undress and bath, while Ini was busy taking care of the baby, carefully rubbing his tiny behind with ointments and sprinkling him with the special powders Elaine had provided.

After the long weeks in bed when I had been completely unable to take care of my bodily needs without assistance, I no longer felt self-conscious about being helped with dressing and bathing. In fact, by now I often enjoyed the quiet time in the evening that I spent mainly with Sorcha and Ini before going to bed. It helped me unwind after a bad day.

I slipped into my long white nightgown, yet another gown with the neckline held in place only by a simple drawstring, to make nursing in the middle of the night easier. Then I obediently sat down on a chair to allow Sorcha to braid my hair for the night. Rohirric women are proud of their braids. And once hair has reached a certain length it's really not a good idea to keep it unbound during the night. Especially when there is a pretty good chance that a baby might spit on it after a nightly meal.

From the bedroom I heard a happy gurgling noise that told me that Éomer had taken over the duty of putting Elfwine into his cradle. There was one sound that the baby had reserved only for his father. I smiled. There was also a sound that was just for me.

"Thank you, Sorcha. Sleep well."

Sorcha smiled at me. "You, too, my lady." She did not curtsy, but respectfully inclined her head to me, and then noiselessly left the room.

I went over to the bedroom door. Now it was only the three of us.

_The most precious hour of each day._

**oooOooo**

I entered the room. Éomer was already in bed. But, as I had almost expected, Elfwine was not in his cradle. Éomer had put the baby next to him in the big bed again, playing the "hold my finger as hard as you can"-game.

"Who's winning?" I walked over and slipped under the covers on my side of the bed. Éomer barely raised his head, so intent was he on the game. "I am. But barely."

"He's your son, what did you expect?"

Now he did look up, his eyes filled with warmth. "And yours," he countered. "Your strength is far beyond mine." A shadow passed over his face. _The fear of losing me_, I knew. This fear was his constant companion now. And probably would be, for some time to come. I lifted my hand to caress his cheek and wanted to curse myself at once: my arm was shaking. It had been a long day, and I had not taken the time for a nap this afternoon.

Éomer caught my hand and held it tightly. "You did not rest enough today, my love."

I sighed. "I _did_ want to attend the council."

"I know. Ever the dutiful queen. But promise that you will not do anything much tomorrow." He tried to sound stern. I could not suppress a yawn and laughed softly. "I promise."

I gratefully returned the pressure of his hand, enjoying the warmth of his skin. I was always cold these days. "I think I am really too tired to do anything but obey your command tomorrow, my lord."

"Good. A dutiful _and_ an obedient queen. I am doubly blessed."

I snorted. "How about singing our little prince to sleep now?"

We had developed a routine. Elfwine got two songs every night. One from me, and one from Éomer. "Anrid complained to me." Éomer said suddenly. The expression on his face turned decidedly unpleasant. I sighed. Anrid was not a bad person, really. But she _was_ uncomfortable with her elevated role at court, easily flustered, painfully aware of her duties and customs that ought to be obeyed. Éomer had also never quite forgiven her for being a bit of a fool during Elfwine's birth. Though from what Sorcha had told me, her behaviour had not been quite as bad to my mind as it was to Éomer's. I had been getting along quite well with Anrid before Elfwine's birth, but Éomer's displeasure with her was making her so uncomfortable in my presence that I found it increasingly difficult to have any kind of normal conversation with her. "What did she do this time?" I asked.

"Apparently she is concerned about the fact that you sing German songs to our son."

"What?" I bit down on my tongue. The shock and surprise had made me raise my voice beyond the level of noise that was suitable to get our son in the mood for sleep. A happy gargling and frantic waving of hands was the prompt answer. "What?" I repeated, in a lower voice, but feeling completely dumbfounded. How could such a silly complaint hurt me so much? Because it came so out of the blue? Or because it was about some of the most intimate moments the three of us shared together each day?

"Yes," Éomer replied tersely. "I reminded her that any heir to the kingdom of Rohan was always raised speaking two languages: Rohirric and Westron. What harm can some lullabies in his mother's native language do him? And she does not object to Legolas singing to him in Sindarin." Éomer was frowning, his eyes glowering balefully.

"Thank you, my love," I whispered, feeling quite unexpectedly tears burning in my eyes. To tell me of such a small incident, he had to be really, really angry. Usually he tried to keep such petty grievances from me. "Danke, Éomer."

He drew my hand to his lips. The soft touch made my heart flutter with love and longing. _"Ich liebe dich, Lothíriel."_ The one phrase in German he could say perfectly. A phrase that only belonged to the two of us, because there was no one else in this whole wide world who could understand those words.

"Would you sing for us now?" Letting go of my hand, Éomer settled down on his pillows, his left hand gently stroking the round belly of our son. Elfwine responded with a tiny yawn. I smiled down at our child. "Yes, I will sing for you now. It's way past bed-time for all of us!"

I would actually _croon_, not really sing. I could not sing. But singing – crooning – to our baby was special, sacred. It was not about hitting the right notes, or keeping melody and rhythm true. It was about us. About our little family.

So I sat up in bed, sitting cross-legged with my blanket wrapped around me, my hand lightly resting on Éomer's who kept stroking the baby, in tiny, tender movements.

And then I sang, once again the one lullaby I remembered perfectly from my own childhood.

_"Guten Abend, gut Nacht,  
Mit Rosen bedacht,  
Mit Näglein besteckt,  
Schlupf unter die Deck':  
Morgen früh, wenn Gott will,  
Wirst du wieder geweckt."_

My voice wavered, with fatigue as well as with love. But I deep in my heart I thought I had never sung more beautifully in my life.

Then it was Éomer's turn. I kissed the baby goodnight and lay down, snuggling into the warm nest of my blankets, my head so close to Elfwine's that I could smell his sweet and pure baby-smell, all freshly washed and powdered his scent was the most alluring perfume I knew.

"Ready?" I heard Éomer's smile.

"Yes."

After his song Éomer would put his son in the cradle next to my side of the bed, so that I only had to reach over when the baby woke hungry during the night. Sometimes I fell asleep even before Éomer was finished with his song. As warmth slowly crept back into my hands and my feet after a day of feeling cold all the time, I suspected that tonight would be one of those nights.

Then Éomer began to sing. He sang in a low voice, but he sang so heart-breaking clearly and gently that the tears that I had been able to blink away only a few minutes ago, suddenly began to flow. I knew the song by now; it was one of his favourites, one of the few precious songs he remembered his mother singing to him when he was a small child.

_"Sleep my love, and peace attend thee__  
__All through the night;__  
__All the riders will defend thee,__  
__All through the night,__  
__Soft the drowsy hours are creeping,__  
__Wold and vale in slumber steeping,__  
__I my loving vigil keeping,__  
__All through the night._

_Valar watching ever round thee,__  
__All through the night,__  
__In thy slumbers close surround thee,__  
__All through the night,__  
__They should of all fears disarm thee,__  
__No forebodings should alarm thee,__  
__They will let no peril harm thee,__  
__All through the night."_

As I had suspected, I was asleep before Éomer had reached the end of the second stanza.

**oooOooo**

It was a brilliant day in the middle of May. The sun shone warm and golden on my face and the apple and pear trees in the small orchard of the Palace of Meduseld were in full bloom. The humming sound of bees filled the air around me, and the soft breeze carried the perfume of spring, of gentle rains and the sweet scent of white and pink blossoms.

The baby in my arms squirmed, uncomfortable in the tiny uniform of the Mark he was dressed in for this special occasion. The leather of his small tunic was still a little stiff, and had not yet acquired the comfortable powdery smell of his other clothing. Nevertheless he was too good-natured to get really cranky about his discomfort. He really was such a good baby; where Anrid's little one would break into angry howls, Elfwine only squirmed and grumbled.

We – the complete royal household, some nobles from surrounding fiefs as well as some rich merchants and dignitaries from the city of Edoras – stood gathered around a small pear tree in the orchard of the palace of Meduseld. The pear tree was not even as tall as I was, little more than a sapling, but covered in the most beautiful white blossoms highlighted with the barest touch of rosé. At the roots of the tree a hole gaped in the earth, about two feet deep and one foot across. I could see an earthworm wiggling on the pile of earth heaped up next to the hole. Somewhere on the roof of the Meduseld a blackbird was declaring its undying love to a silent female bird that was nowhere in sight.

Éomer stood next to the hole, wearing the splendid uniform of the First Marshall of the Mark as well as his crown. In his hands he held a small wooden box that was covered in some of the most intricate carvings I had ever seen, gilded in expensive reds and gold. I stared at the little box and tried very hard not to think about what that box contained.

I swallowed hard. My temples prickled. I swallowed once more and turned my concentration firmly on the still squirming bundle of baby in my arms.

Drum rolls sounded. Elfwine stopped struggling. Music of any kind was sure to catch his attention at once. His favourite time of day was still bedtime, listening my crooning and his dad's beautiful singing. But he also adored Legolas' elvish songs and Gimli's rumbling dwarvish chants. I straightened my back. _Elfwine was getting really heavy!_

The drums fell silent. Fanfares sounded. Elfwine actually squeed with delight at the sound. _A true Rohirrim!_ Éomer looked at me, his eyes shining with pride and happiness, not at all bothered by the contents of the box in his hands. For spring had come and was even now turning into summer, and I was still here, and growing stronger each day, along with our beautiful son.

Éomer lifted the box high into the air, and everyone cheered and clapped with great enthusiasm. Elfwine squeed again, a high-pitched, delighted sound of joy, waving his small arms, reacting to the atmosphere of excitement around him. However, I could not completely stop myself from frowning, feeling not quite comfortable with the knowledge of just what was in that pretty box. _The afterbirth. _Kept in a tightly lidded box in the cool cellars of the Meduseld, so that it could now be buried in a suitable ceremony that would provide blessing for the whole household.

Then the drums were struck up again. Éomer knelt down and carefully placed the little box in the hole at the roots of the pear tree. When he got to his feet again, his face was wreathed in an enormous smile of happiness. To the sound of drums and trumpets he reached for the shovel and quickly buried the box under the pear tree.

The baby in my arms had grown still now, his head turned towards his father, apparently watching his every movement with acute fascination. The hole was quickly filled up with earth again. With a triumphant shout Éomer stuck the shovel into the earth next to the tree and turned to face me and the gathered crowd.

The music stopped.

"May the tree grow tall!" Éomer shouted. _"Se treow mæge grōwan tæl!"_

The crowd roared an echo: _"Se treow mæge grōwan tæl!"_

Then Éomer looked at our son who was staring at his father open-mouthed, a thin trail of drool dribbling down his chin. I managed to shake my kerchief surreptitiously out of my sleeve and dry up Elfwine's chin just in time before the drool flowed on the white fabric of my sleeves.

"May the Prince grow strong!" Éomer cried, his voice for once shaking, and not as strong as I was accustomed to hear it. _"Se prince mæge growan strong!"_

The answer of the crowd was more than loud enough to make up for that. They positively _screamed_ their answer: _"Se prince mæge growan strong!"_

Then Éomer raised his head and our eyes met. I could see that his eyes were filled with tears, and his voice was harsh with emotion as he called out a third time, "Long live his mother, the Queen! _Lang libbe his mōdor se cwén!_"

The noise was so loud that the baby gave quite a start in my arms and promptly screwed up his face for a cry of protest. But Elfwine's anxious howl was completely drowned out by the happy roar that went up from the crowd around us in response to Éomer's call.

_"Lang libbe his mōdor se cwén!"_

I patted Elfwine's back to soothe the distressed baby. My heart was beating rather quickly and my face almost hurt from smiling so much as I walked to stand next to Éomer. My husband put his arm around me, pressing me against him. Elfwine, feeling the presence of his dad, promptly calmed down, so I dared to lift him up, presenting him to our family to the royal household, to our friends and to the powerful nobles of the realm, showing them just how strong this young prince of Rohan already was.

_"Se prince mæge growan strong!" _they shouted, clapping their hands and stamping their feet, unable to contain their excitement.

And then they shouted once more, _"Lang libbe his mōdor se cwén!"_

**oooOooo**

**A/N: **The English translation of the German lullaby is this:

_"Good evening, good night,  
Bedecked with roses,  
Covered with carnations,  
Slip under the blanket  
Tomorrow morning, God willing,  
You will be woken again."_

**ooo**

The English lullaby is a slightly adapted version of the ancient Welsh folk song, _Ar Hyd y Nos_. It was first published under that name by Bardd y Brenin (Edward Jones) in _Musical Relicks of the Welsh Bards_(1784). The first English lyrics were possibly written by Amelia Opie and was sung to an English setting, "Here beneath a willow weepeth poor Mary Ann." Those lyrics were eventually replaced by Harold Boulton's now familiar lyrics.

**ooo**

Many thanks to Morelindo for the Old English translations!

**ooo**

During the Middle Ages burying the afterbirth under trees in the orchard of the house was a wide-spread custom in Europe. For boys they used pear trees, for girls apple trees.

**oooOooo**

* * *

**  
Please feel free to leave a comment!**

_Anything at all:_ if you noticed a typo, if you don't like a characterization or description, if you thought one line especially funny, if there was anything you particularly enjoyed…

I am really interested in knowing what my readers think about what I write.

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Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter.

Yours   
JunoMagic


	110. Epilogue

**Epilogue – Edoras, year 38 of the Fourth Age/3059 according to the old reckoning  
**

It is a chilly morning in March. I have taken my tea into the study and now I am sitting here with my old leather-bound journal on the desk before me. A moment's peace until I have to try and teach my grandchildren their letters and figures; the last tutor has despaired of them and it will take a few weeks yet until the scholar Aragorn is sending to us from Minas Tirith will get here. So it's my task to see to it that these rascals don't forget all they should have learned by now until Master Hathorn gets here. I just hope that this new teacher has more endurance than the last two.

As I look up, I see my reflection in the window panes. The candle light and the milky glass of the thick round panes soften the lines left in my face by the passage of the years. This is fitting, I think, for even if my face is lined, my heart is not: most of these years were good years. Apart from the wrinkles, not much has changed, to my surprise. Well, I'm not quite as quick and mobile as I was at twenty-five. And a few other things about my appearance have changed as well, but only a few. With the wrinkles in my face I have acquired grey streaks in my hair. I need glasses to write and to read, but thank God I have kept my teeth. And I am not fat yet. The busy life here at the Meduseld, along with assorted children, grandchildren, the horses, the dogs and my indefatigable husband keep me fit.

_I smile:_ I have been truly blessed. Eru and the Valar have guarded me and my family. All of our children have lived to grow up.

In the first pages of my journal I have painted a family tree. They are all in there, my children, my sons and my daughters, their wives and their husbands, as well as their children – and soon, I think, their children's children. For Elfin is sweet on Richildis; he thinks he is hiding it well, but I have seen the way he looks at her – and the way she looks back. She is a sweet girl, the youngest daughter of the present lord of Dunharrow; a suitable match.

Elfwine is now the Second Marshal of the Mark, and Theoderich has been made Third Marshal this year. Their wives, Freya and Marthe, and all of their children – seven between the two of them – live with us in the palace of Meduseld. Quite happily, too; although sometimes I feel that even a palace can get crowded with so many children underfoot.

Perhaps that's the reason why Gandalfr has left us to join the Dúnedain. _No, not really, of course._ He's simply the lone ranger among our children.

Míriam lives with her husband, Peregil, and their four children in Minas Tirith. She's one of Arwen's ladies in waiting and the only one who can tame the Queen's three youngest girls.

Our youngest child, Theresa, will turn twenty-five this October. She has married last summer, Frohwein's eldest son, Alarich. He's a good man and the horses love him. That's what Éomer said when told about Alarich's intentions towards our daughter. _A Rider's priorities!_ _I _wanted to know if she loves him. She said yes. Before the year is out I will be a grandmother twelve times over. It is hard to believe that my little Theresa is now as old as I was when the war was over and I fell in love with Éomer all those many years ago.

Éowyn was not as lucky as I am. Two of her sons, Faron and Eor, lie buried in the secret garden of Henneth Annûn. But her four grown children, Elboron, Lothírion, Merrywyn and Tassilo are her pride and joy. Between them they have provided Éowyn and Faramir with seventeen grandchildren up until now. They are even more productive than my lot; almost like hobbits.

Arwen has by now seven daughters (out-producing Fëanor! But they say that after a war there are always many children born for a generation or two, in order to make up for the losses; and the losses were many and harsh, in the war that won us the peace of the Fourth Age). Arwen's and Aragorn's daughters are two pairs of twins, Celair and Celu, Gail and Galathil, Elloth, Elroa and Felicitas – all of them beautiful and wise beyond the regular human being. Blood will tell! But they have only the one son, Eldarion. He was born in December. _Yes, December last year. _Although Arwen _does_ age since she chose a mortal fate, to live and die with her husband, she ages much slower than the rest of us, and – _alas_ – also much more gracefully. When she married Aragorn, she seemed to be the same age as Éowyn and I were at the time. By now she looks twenty years younger than we are. We tease her about it and call her _"kiddo"_. She does not like that one little bit. I can't help grinning when I think about that joke…

_Ah, the years are truly flying by like leaves in the wind._

But there's still so _much_ to do.

And I am not _really_ old yet.

Why, I have only just turned sixty-five.

I still have another year to go until I can sing an old German song I remember from my childhood, so far away now that it seems like a distant dream. But I do remember that song. It goes like this: "Mit 66 Jahren, da fängt das Leben an, mit 66 Jahren, da hat man Spaß daran…"

"_When you are 66, life has only just begun, when you are 66, you can still have a lot of fun…"_

I think I will hold with that.

_Now, where are those grandchildren of mine?_

They should have been here half an hour ago. And it's much too quiet outside in the hall. I bet they have hidden in the stables again. Éomer will kill them if he finds them with the stallions again.

I guess I'd better go and get them.

_So much for a peaceful morning…_

**ooooooOoooooo**

THE END

**ooooooOoooooo**

**A/N:**

I can hear you exclaiming, "_What?_ But why is this 'The End'?"

Well, actually, it's not – or not _quite _at least.

Between chapter 109 and Lothy's attempt to find a bit of peace and quiet in this epilogue lie many years, with war and peace, happiness and sadness, births and deaths. And in a folder in my computer there are enough scenes already prepared to last for another 50 chapters I think.

**But: **I have been working on "Lothíriel" for more than a year now.

It's time for me to take a break.

Thank you for taking this incredible journey with me, for your encouragement and your enthusiasm in the many, many comments and mails you wrote to me!

**If you have not yet dropped me a line, I would greatly appreciate it if you would take the time to leave a comment.**

_Anything at all:_ If you noticed a typo, if you don't like a characterization or description, if you thought a line especially funny, if there was anything you particularly enjoyed … I am really interested in what my readers think about my writing. Comments, concrit, congratulations (wink!) are always welcome.

You can leave a public comment (signed or anonymous), send me a private message, visit my forums or mail me off-site: juno _underscore_ magic _at_ magic _dot_ ms

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this story.

Yours  
JunoMagic


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